Lifetime (6 page)

Karin Andersson Bellhorn had dumped her middle name in the phone book and was listed as a TV producer. Annika knew who she was: they had met a few times at the office where Anne Snapphane worked.

Mariana von Berlitz had an unlisted number, but Annika knew who she was too. Six years ago, they had shared a desk at
Kvällspressen
and had had a falling-out about who was expected to clean up. Mariana was Carl Wennergren’s girlfriend. And Stefan Axelsson was listed as a technical director.

Annika made a quick calculation. She was fairly sure of seven people, if the manager guy was the right one. And she knew that Anne Snapphane was there. That made eight. Anne had travelled by train, and Annika guessed that Barbara Hanson had done the same. Nine. Who were the others? The Range Rover belonged to TV Plus, so it must be a bigwig’s company car, maybe it even belonged to the head honcho himself. Anne Snapphane only ever referred to him as the Highlander.

‘Because he thinks he’s immortal and invincible,’ Anne had explained.

Who could the other two be?

Annika gazed out over the park. Soaking wet and hungry, a flock of sheep bleated on the opposite side of the avenue. Out on the island, a couple of police officers guarded the bridge. The broadcast bus was hidden by the buildings.

The bus, she thought. Somebody had to be in charge of the bus, some technical wiz. Eleven.

She couldn’t figure out who number twelve could be. It was time to make contact.

She picked up her phone and dialled Anne Snapphane’s number. It was busy.

‘Annika, Annika Bengtzon . . . Annika Bengtzon!’

The voice came from the direction of the cars over by the Garden Wing. She turned, peering through the rain to make out who it was.

It was Pia Lakkinen, one of her former associates at
Katrineholms-Kuriren.
The reporter had just got out of her car. Pia pulled up the hood of her raincoat and hurried over to Annika.

‘It’s been ages!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s great to see you.’

They shook hands and Annika tried to smile. But she didn’t share Pia’s enthusiasm. As a rule she disliked overly friendly approaches by fellow reporters when they were at the scene of a murder, and the fact that they had worked on the same paper at one time made things worse. Annika had quit her job in order to work for
Kvällspressen
in Stockholm, and many of her associates at
Katrineholms-Kuriren
had seen this as her passing judgement on their paper.

‘Well, how are things at
KK
?’ Annika asked.

Pia sighed theatrically.

‘Oh, it’s the same old grind. Lousy planning, no leadership, all that . . . and now all this rain too. Has it let up at all, you think?’

Annika searched for the right words, a platform to stand on, to no avail. The other reporter didn’t notice Annika’s uneasiness, she was adrift herself and rattled away nervously.

‘And now this,’ Pia said, ‘right in the middle of the holidays. A murder, here in Flen. It’s totally unreal – you never expect something like a killing to happen in a quiet place like this . . .’

Annika looked around her, searching for Bertil Strand, or anyone at all, just to escape from her former associate. Pia Lakkinen noticed the dismissal without accepting it.

‘I guess this kind of stuff happens all the time in Stockholm,’ she said.

‘Actually, the most brutal murders tend to be committed in rural areas, in small towns and communities,’ Annika countered coolly.

Her statement had the desired effect. Pia suddenly looked shocked and worried.

‘Do you think they’ll catch the killer soon?’

‘Hard to say,’ Annika replied. ‘Twelve people are being interviewed up at the castle as we speak.’

Pia Lakkinen’s eyes opened wide.

‘Really?’

Despite the pouring rain, Annika stood up straighter: she was the one in the know. And
KK
wouldn’t hit the shelves until Monday, so she could afford to be generous.

‘Nearly all of them belong to the TV team involved with the show,’ she continued. ‘A few are guests or reporters on the job. I know who all of them are but one.’

The small-town reporter looked defeated.

‘It’s hard to get information when you don’t know the police officers,’ Pia said. ‘I don’t know what the Crime Squad from Stockholm is doing here.’

‘It’s an old tradition that Stockholm is prepared to assist police forces all over the country,’ Annika explained. ‘But these guys are from the Homicide Division. They’re pros.’

Pia Lakkinen glanced over at the castle.

‘As far as I can see, they just seem to be milling around.’

‘They always start by searching the grounds,’ Annika said, ‘for shoeprints and stuff like that. They work from the outside in, you could say. Do you know what time the police were called in?’

The reporter shook her head.

‘The news flash was sent at 9:41 a.m.’

‘Yeah, but someone was already on the scene by then, probably regular beat cops from Katrineholm or Eskilstuna. They established the fact that there was a dead body in an OB bus parked behind the New Wing. By the time the news flash was dispatched they probably had sealed off the crime scene and isolated the witnesses already. I don’t think Forensics or any detectives had made it here by then, but they were on their way.’

Pia Lakkinen looked impressed.

‘Is she still in there?’

‘Probably. They were working inside the bus a little while ago when I was over there. I don’t think they’ll move her before the rain eases up. It would destroy too much evidence.’

‘Have you been inside the bus?’

Her ex-colleague sounded sceptical.

Annika could hear the critical edge to her voice when she continued: ‘A struggle would complicate matters. They have to investigate the bus and the body. They examine her clothing and see if the body has been moved to the bus or if the crime was committed there. When they’re done and it’s stopped raining, they’ll move her.’

‘Move her? Where to?’

‘Someplace where there’s a medical examiner. My guess is Karolinska: it’s the closest hospital with facilities like that. A forensics team and a pathologist will remove her clothing. You know, to check for matter under her nails and stuff like that . . .’

‘Yuck,’ Pia said with a shudder, followed by an attempt at a laugh. ‘Well, how’s life treating you?’

Annika took a deep breath.

‘I’m just fine. It’s nice to be back on the beat. I’ve been away on maternity leave twice, so I’m getting back into the swing of things.’

‘So, I guess the kids are spending Midsummer with their daddy.’

Annika smiled.

‘Of course.’

‘How are the kids taking it?’

Pia Lakkinen looked sympathetic, Annika kept smiling.

‘They’re fine. They’re out at Gällnö Island visiting their grandparents. We were supposed to stay in a tent, but in this weather I hope they won’t have to.’

The reporter regarded Annika searchingly for a few seconds.

‘We? Were you supposed to be there too?’

‘That’s right,’ Annika said, laughing briefly. ‘But since it’s pouring down, it doesn’t bother me to be here.’

Pia’s face reflected disappointment and distrust.

‘Then you haven’t split up?’

Annika’s smile faded.

‘Split up? Me and Thomas?’

Pia laughed.

‘Well, you hear a lot of stuff, you know. Somebody said you’d split up, that he’d left you and the kids.’

Annika turned pale.

‘Who said that?’

Pia Lakkinen backed away, an embarrassed smile on her face. Annika interpreted her expression as derision and maliciousness.

‘You know how people talk in a small town like Katrineholm – I think it was a checker at the supermarket. But I have to run now and join my photographer, we’re supposed to write about the Midsummer celebrations in Bie and then interview the prime minister out at Harpsund too, so you take care now and give my love––’

Annika turned away, the weight on her chest rotating a full 360 degrees. Her sense of loss returned and it mingled with the degradation she felt.

In her home town no one was impressed by her work, her career and ambitions. They felt sorry for her.

Gunnar Antonsson crawled out of bed in his stuffy room in the South Wing and glanced at his watch. No wonder he was hungry. He got his little French press coffee-maker, went over to the sink and rinsed out the old grounds. Then he filled it with fresh water that he then poured into the electric kettle. He dumped four scoops of coffee into the press. While the water hummed and whistled in the kettle, he looked out the window at the lacy crowns of the trees, the impenetrable greyness of the sky behind its cloak of rain.

When the kettle had boiled, he poured the hot water into the press, pushed down the filter and poured some of the resulting beverage into his tooth glass. He looked at himself in the mirror above the washbasin while he took a sip. The coffee was scalding so he put down the glass, causing it to clink against the porcelain. Rubbing his chin he felt the rough stubble there. He could use a shave.

Antonsson should have been on his way to Dalarna in the bus. They were supposed to broadcast a Midsummer special from the abandoned chalk mine, a huge opera concert including works by Wagner, Alfén and Beethoven. The Royal Philharmonic, directed by Uno Kamprad and featuring Scandinavian soloists.

He had looked forward to the concert, and not only because it would generate incredibly welcome revenue for his company. He was also a Wagner fan.

Michelle Carlsson liked opera music, he suddenly recalled. She would have enjoyed coming along to see the concert live.

The thought was strangely arousing. Unseeingly, Gunnar Antonsson looked again at his own reflection in the mirror. In his mind’s eye he saw the white legs, the well-tended bush between Michelle’s legs, the moisture that still glistened on the inside of her thighs. He felt aroused and then ashamed. What was wrong with him?

He hadn’t slept a wink after 6:12 this morning. That was when he had put the key in the lock of Outside Broadcast Bus No. Five, opened the door and encountered that odd smell. He’d never smelled anything quite like it before in his whole life. Sweet, sour and faecal at the same time. The absurdity of the situation struck him only after he had opened the door and the unbearable smell had enveloped him.

‘Why are you guys here?’ he had asked the crowd behind him, their faces displaying various degrees of inebriation and haggardness.

‘We’ve got to talk to Michelle,’ the scrawny one had said, the manager guy. He had tried to push past him, but Gunnar had blocked the way.

‘The sets have been struck and the equipment has been stowed. No one has any business being here.’

‘But Michelle’s in there,’ Anne Snapphane had said, and when Anne Snapphane spoke, he listened.

‘She can’t be. I just unlocked the door.’

Dazed and half-asleep, Gunnar had stood there in his slacks, unbuttoned shirt and shoes with no socks and realized that the others hadn’t even been to bed. They’d woken him up so that he would unlock the bus. That was when he’d got angry.

‘What’s going on?’ he had demanded. ‘What kind of monkey business is this?’

He had put his keys back in the left-hand pocket of his slacks and felt the familiar weight near his groin, sensing the jagged points of metal through the lining. Then he had stepped into the control room, blinking in the dim light. A few monitors faintly lit the narrow path leading to the production room, the rack on the right, the electrical control unit; he had popped in and checked out the CCDs, opened the door to ‘Technology Row’, looked into the video room and gazed at the tape recorders, beta, digital, and VHS, and all the profilers. Everything was packed and secured.

He had stepped out into the hallway again, and Anne Snapphane had been in the doorway, the others crowding behind her.

‘Please, Gunnar darling, it’s raining cats and dogs,’ she had said, and he always had a hard time resisting Anne.

He had muttered something that she interpreted as an invitation, so she had walked in, the crowd following in her wake.

The lighting inside the production area was patchy and weak and emanated from the tiny lights on the monitors and controls. The smell was pungent and the soft grey shades of the walls swallowed up the shadows. Gunnar blinked a few times before he caught sight of Michelle Carlsson.

She had been lying in the narrow space between the front and rear production consoles, right in front of the seat used by the technical director. The first thing he had noticed was that she was nude from the waist down. The second thing was that her bare legs were bent at an inexplicably unnatural angle. The third thing was that she was way too still. Then it had hit him. Even before he saw what was left of her head, he had known. Gunnar went hunting, so he knew what death looked like. Even so, this wasn’t the same – it was an utterly foreign sensation, the smell so overwhelmingly different. A wave of sorrow and tenderness had crashed over him. He had heard himself gasp and he had fallen to his knees.

Coming up behind Gunnar so that he hadn’t been able to stop her, Anne Snapphane had asked: ‘What is it?’ Then she had turned on the overhead lamps, bathing the entire place in light. White and bloodless, Michelle’s legs had stood out sharply against the dark blue carpeting. The revolver by her foot was large and clumsy-looking. A scream echoed in his mind.

Gunnar Antonsson shut his eyes, not wanting to remember anything more. Quickly turning away from the mirror, he shook off the memory of the smell and walked over to the window. The rain kept coming down just as hard, pattering loudly against the windowsill and making a sound like an engine running. He looked out the window and saw two policemen walking around the bus in a seemingly aimless and irrational manner.

Suddenly he was fed up.

He had put on his poplin jacket, retied his shoes, smoothed his hair and left the room.

The policeman looked up in surprise when he approached them, standing around as if the bus was theirs, not his.

‘How long is this going to go on?’ Gunnar asked.