Lifetime (5 page)

‘There’s a beach beyond that hill,’ Annika replied, ‘and there should be a lifeboat next to the jetty. I figure we could borrow it.’

The rain showed no sign of letting up. They put on raingear and Bertil Strand packed his cameras in plastic bags and put them in a watertight backpack.

‘Cover that computer,’ the photographer said. ‘I don’t want anyone to break into my car.’

Annika gritted her teeth and tossed a blanket over her computer bag in the back seat. Break in? When you’re parked in an empty parking lot at a Christian centre?

The boat was there, half-filled with water. The oars had been tossed into the reeds, but they couldn’t find a bailer. They pulled the boat ashore, turned it over and watched the water carve a creek in the sand.

‘Do you know how to row a boat?’ an uncharacteristically timorous Bertil Strand asked.

‘I hope they haven’t sealed off the beaches,’ Annika replied.

It was farther than she’d thought. The tiny rowboat bobbed like a float on the waves; at times it felt like they weren’t getting anywhere. The boat began to fill up with water again, and it wasn’t only coming from above.

A lifeboat, huh? Yeah, right
, she thought when they were halfway across the lake.

As they rounded the point, the full force of the wind hit them. Annika’s arms started to cramp up.

‘Do you really think we’ll make it today?’ Bertil Strand asked, wet as a drowned dog.

This made Annika row faster and more vigorously. Right when she was ready to give up, she caught sight of the sauna and the beach house.

‘We’re almost there,’ she said, squinting to see the island where the castle was located behind its cloak of rain.

Something was going on there on the beach. She could make out some little black figures milling around outside the buildings. She could also see a large and colourful logotype on a white wall near the canal inlet.

Pulling out a camera from a plastic bag, the photographer said: ‘That’s the outside-broadcast bus, isn’t it? Could you hold the boat steady? I might as well snap a few shots in case they run us off the place . . .’

Annika paid no attention to Strand and rowed the boat further from shore, almost grateful for the bad weather. If they were in luck they could row clear around the island without being seen, land by the flagpole and make their way up to the estate.

It worked. Chilled through and exhausted, Annika was shaking all over by the time they pulled the boat ashore through the reeds and up on the lawn.

‘Do you know your way around this place?’ Bertil Strand asked.

She spent a few seconds gasping for air and tried to suppress a cough.

‘My grandmother used to bring me here every year, on her birthday. We would take a walk in the park and then have a three-course meal in the dining room.’

‘What fancy habits,’ Bertil Strand said as he wriggled into his backpack.

‘Gran was the matron of Harpsund. It’s less than ten kilometres away, through the woods. She knew the former manager at Yxtaholm. The meal was a gift.’

Annika pointed to the right, into the mists.

‘The terrace,’ she said. ‘That must be where they taped the shows.’

She waved to the left.

‘The North Wing: suites and two-room apartments. Straight ahead there’s the manor house, the dining rooms and the different lounges. Let’s go.’

The manor house towered in front of them like a glistening palace, white and slick with rain. They approached the house from the direction of the north gable, its mansard roof blacker than the stormy sky. Halfway up the slope leading to the house, a bed of roses was on the verge of blooming. Three police cars were parked along the drive.

‘What kind of a place is this, anyway?’ Bertil Strand wondered as he unpacked a camera.

‘It’s an old country seat,’ Annika replied, ‘dating back to medieval times. Now it’s a conference centre and a hotel owned by the Swedish Employers’ Confederation. It was built in 1753.’

The photographer shot her a quick glance.

‘Not 1754, then?’

‘Check it out,’ Annika said, pointing to the year written over the entrance. It struck her that she hadn’t ever seen it closed before, the double doors had always been wide open and welcoming. Now the solid brown doors seemed massive, heavy and dismissive.

She pointed across the slope, past the South Wing.

‘The first buildings were made of wood and they were located over there. The castle and the annexes have a core of brick that was fired in a furnace over there behind the trees. Want to see the crime scene first?’

Bertil Strand nodded.

They walked around the castle, progressing slowly and carefully from tree to tree through the park. They passed the terrace with its well-tended gravel paths, manicured lawns, hedges and flower beds. With a sideways glance, Annika looked at the exterior of the building – so austere and whitewashed, tidy rows of windows. The hundreds of intricately mullioned windows in their lead frames reflected the silvery surface of Lake Yxtasjön.

‘You can almost see people running around in crinolines,’ the photographer said, shooting away.

They went down to the lake, passing the small labyrinth of hedges and walls and the jetty, and reaching the gable of the New Wing, the one that faced west.

Pointing, Annika said: ‘There’s the bus.’

Bertil Strand switched cameras and stretched out on the grass. Supporting the telephoto lens with his left hand, he triggered the winder motor with his right.

Annika stood behind him, observing the scene of the murder. The broadcast bus didn’t really look like a bus, more like a gigantic Mack truck. It opened up lengthwise on one side, which created twice as much space. The entrance was facing them, and five metal steps led up to a narrow door to the left of the cab. She saw a policeman in uniform standing there, his back to them, talking to someone inside the control room.

‘Do we need to move in closer?’ she asked in a low voice.

Even though Annika didn’t get on particularly well with the photographer, she respected his professional opinion.

‘Not really. I got a few shots from the other side, from the boat. We could move down to the right and try to get a shot of the annexes in the background. Stall them if they try to get rid of us.’

Bertil Strand got up, slung his backpack over his left shoulder and walked along the beach. Scanning the white buildings, Annika followed him. The castle nestled at the top of the hill: the annexes, the walls, the lush trees – each one a different type – the contrast between the warm golden light emanating from the windows and the gloomy weather.

I can see why Oxenstierna wrote the words ‘as beauteous as Eden’ in his diary here after staying here
, Annika thought.

‘Got it,’ the photographer said and turned to face the lake.

They went back the same way they’d come, Bertil Strand taking pictures along the way.

When they reached the top of the drive they walked straight into a police officer from Eskilstuna whom Annika had met before.

‘What are you doing here?’ the man said in a commanding voice.

Annika whipped out her press card and waved it in the officer’s face.

‘We’re looking for a colleague of ours, Carl Wennergren. He was present at the taping of the shows yesterday and presumably he’s still on the premises.’

‘He’s being interviewed,’ the police officer replied and came up very close to Annika. ‘Would you please leave the premises and join the other reporters?’

‘Is he a suspect?’

‘I am not at liberty to disclose information of that nature at the present time.’

The policeman prodded her.

‘Watch it,’ Annika exclaimed sharply. ‘You can’t just detain journalists for questioning. If the police have detained or arrested a reporter working for one of Sweden’s major newspapers, you are required to report this fact to his employer.’

This wasn’t true, but the officer didn’t know that for sure.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ he said. ‘I have no idea.’

‘How many people have been interviewed?’

‘Everyone who stayed here last night.’

‘How many people would that be?’

‘A dozen. And another associate of yours is here too – that older woman who writes a column.’

Annika gaped.

‘Barbara Hanson? What’s she doing here?’

Leaning in close, the policeman lowered his voice.

‘There haven’t been any arrests, at any rate,’ he said. ‘I would have been told.’

‘Has the staff here at the castle been interviewed too?’

‘Not at the present time. None of them were here last night.’

‘Anything else?’ Annika hurried to ask.

A man in a raincoat and tall boots was heading in their direction, unsettling the policeman.

‘You’ve got to go,’ he said, taking her arm and turning her away from the castle.

They walked slowly towards the bridge, back to where the other journalists were waiting. Annika pulled out her cellphone and called Spike.

The news editor appeared to be eating at his desk. She could hear him chomping away and trying to talk in between bites.

‘What does Wennergren have to say?’

‘I don’t know, he’s only allowed to talk to the police.’

‘What the hell, have they arrested Wennergren? He’s a journalist, for God’s sake!’

There was a sound of something moist landing on the receiver, Annika grimaced.

‘I didn’t say he’d been arrested, he’s only been detained for questioning. Anyhow, he’s in good company. Barbara’s here too.’

‘Hanson? Damn it, Schyman ordered her to quit writing any more crap about Michelle Carlsson.’

Annika felt slightly stupid; she didn’t know what Spike was referring to. To be honest, she hadn’t really kept up to date during her maternity leave, particularly when it came to Barbara Hanson’s nasty gossip columns. She changed the subject.

‘A total of twelve people have been detained for questioning.’

‘Who are they?’

The news editor had apparently finished his meal. He burped and lit a cigarette.

‘Mostly people from the TV team, I suppose, but I’ll find out.’

‘We want their names and pictures,’ Spike said, and began composing headlines. ‘“Survivors of the castle bloodbath. One of them is a murderer – and then they were twelve . . .” Great stuff!’

‘Pure poetry,’ Annika remarked and hung up.

‘What do we do now?’ Bertil Strand asked.

‘Head for the parking lot,’ Annika replied.

They crawled under the police tape at the end of the bridge and joined the rest of the media representatives.

‘How did you get in?’ one of their competitor’s reporters asked, a tall blond man in a wet leather jacket.

‘We hid in the grounds last night,’ Annika said and started to head for the Stables.

She relaxed. Her body was starting to return to normal. The cramps in her arms had gone away and the knot in her stomach had relaxed. The water that had trickled down the back of her neck had been warmed up by her skin and she walked around a bit to limber up her stiff joints.

A policeman in uniform came out from the Stables and fiddled with the lock. He hurried off in the direction of the castle without acknowledging the presence of the journalists. Annika followed his progress and felt some more rain trickle down the back of her neck. The ground was spongy and waterlogged, creating puddles at her feet. She stared at the surface: brown, spotty gravel and debris. It smelled musty and sour.

Sweden
, she thought.
What a lousy country it is.

Shocked at her thought, she focused on the positive aspects.

Our ice-hockey team is good, at least when Peter Forsberg is on it, and the social welfare system is good, and the countryside.
The countryside. Annika tried to make it out behind the pouring rain. All she could see were various smudgy shades of brown and grey. There were no mitigating circumstances on a day like this. She wiped her nose, forcing the sour smell to recede.

Several people had made it to the scene before it had been sealed off. In addition to the competition she noticed there were representatives from the national broadcasting service; the local radio station, Radio Sörmland; the regional news show
Öst-Nytt
and her old paper,
Katrineholms-Kuriren.
Their cars were all more or less sloppily parked up by the Garden Wing. She pulled out a pad and a pen and looked over the cars in the lot.

A golden Range Rover, the largest and most expensive SUV on the market. Annika jotted down the licence-plate number. She continued: a VW Polo, red, with a black soft top; a rusty Fiat Uno; a black sports car that looked pretty ritzy until she realized that it was a Chrysler; a green Volvo S40; a bronze-coloured Renault Clio with a ‘Jesus Lives’ sticker on the rear window; a blue BMW and a brown Saab 900 that had seen a good decade or two.

Her cellphone was working – well, thank you, Mr Stenbeck – and she got hold of a guy at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Stockholm within a minute or two.

‘Could you run a few licence-plate numbers for me?’

The giant SUV belonged to TV Plus; the German convertible was listed as belonging to Barbro Rosenberg, a resident of Solna; the Fiat belonged to a Hannah Persson, Katrineholm; the sporty Chrysler belonged to Build&Create in Jönköping; the Volvo was the property of a Karin Andersson, Hägersten; the Renault belonged to a Mariana von Berlitz, Stockholm; a Carl Wennergren owned the BMW; and the Saab belonged to a Stefan Axelsson, who lived in Tullinge.

Purposely disregarding the fact that hundreds of kronor would be racked up on her cellphone bill, Annika decided to check out the owners’ phone numbers.

‘There is no Barbro Rosenberg living in Solna, only a Bambi Rosenberg with an unlisted number,’ the operator, who introduced herself as Linda, drawled.

The actress, Annika wrote on her pad.

Linda had no listing for a Hannah Persson in Katrineholm.

‘Lots of people only have a cellphone without a subscription nowadays,’ she told Annika. ‘And then they wouldn’t be on our records.’

Build&Create had scads of numbers and Annika wrote them all down. The first number belonged to Sebastian Follin, a manager. The name sounded vaguely familiar.