Prime Time (19 page)

Karin Bellhorn’s voice trailed off and she bowed her head.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This is so unpleasant.’

Annika glanced at the reporter standing next to her, noting how he studied the producer, memorizing her words and expressions.

‘What happened here that night?’ Annika asked. ‘From what I understand, there was a pretty violent fight over at the Stables.’

The producer pulled out another cigarette, lit this one herself and greedily inhaled the nicotine.

‘I wasn’t there,’ she replied, curtly now.

‘Who found her?’

‘Why?’

Annika shrugged.

Karin Bellhorn looked at her, her bright, transparent eyes inscrutable. She smoked for a while before she answered.

‘I did,’ she said. ‘There were others. Like your friend Anne. Sebastian, Bambi and Mariana were there too.’

‘And Gunnar,’ Annika said. ‘I expect he unlocked the door.’

‘Why such a crowd?’

The producer looked at Annika again for a long time, then burst into laughter.

‘That’s a good question,’ she said. ‘Why were there so many of us? Well, I guess we were looking for her. We all needed to talk to her.’

‘About what?’

‘We had our reasons.’

Karin put out her cigarette, this time leaving the butt on the grass.

‘See you around, Bosse,’ she said as she threw him a kiss and headed for her car.

‘That makes nine out of eleven,’ Bosse said as Karin Bellhorn revved up her white Volvo and drove off.

‘That leaves Anne and the neo-Nazi,’ Annika said.

With a twinkle in his eye, Bosse turned to look at her.

‘Well, what do you know …’ he said. ‘So this Hannah is a neo-Nazi? There was nothing about that in your paper today.’

Annika could have bitten her tongue.

He saw her dismay and chuckled.

‘I would have found out anyway.’

When the girl put in an appearance, Annika realized that the reporter was right. Hannah Persson from Katrineholm made no secret of her political affiliation: she had a swastika tattooed on her cheek.

‘What a loser,’ Bosse whispered.

Annika squinted to keep the sun out of her eyes and tried to study the girl’s face behind the tattoos and gobs of black make-up.

Hannah from Katrineholm, shouldn’t I be able to recognize you?

Then she became aware of the relentless-time factor.

Hannah had only been seven when Annika had graduated from high school.
She’s still a child.

Unlike the others, Hannah seemed to have been barely affected by her stay at the castle. She walked with a bounce and gazed at her surroundings with curiosity, shielded by a teenager’s inability to fear the consequences of her experiences. Her expression was expectant, and she moved in a calflike manner. Annika detected the shadow of a smile on Hannah’s face as she climbed over the tape, and felt slightly sick to her stomach for some reason.

‘How well did
you
know Michelle Carlsson?’ the woman from the national broadcasting service asked.

Hannah Persson stopped, tugged at one sleeve and smiled uncertainly, while the TV camera was less than an arm’s length away. Slowly, Annika moved closer, noticing that the little Nazi had a bruise on her forehead and an abrasion on her neck.

‘I was on one of the shows,’ she said, her voice like silvery bells, a total contrast to her appearance.

‘Why is that?’

The reporter’s body language and tone of voice illustrated her scepticism and lack of respect.

This rattled the girl. She licked her lips and tried to keep smiling.

‘There was this debate,’ she said. ‘A debate. About feminism and stuff.’

‘Why were you detained? Are you a suspect?’

The questions lashed out at the girl, cold and blunt. The cameras buzzed in chorus with the wasps.

Hannah Persson took half a step backwards. The camera closed in on her and her chin began to quiver.

‘What … Why are you asking me that?’

‘You’ve been detained longer than anyone else. And a murder’s been committed, you know. Have any charges been brought against you?’

A shadow passed across the girl’s face. The feeling rooted itself and remained. Annika saw the expression in her eyes change, from anticipation to defiance. The next time she spoke her voice had changed; it was somewhat hoarser now and displayed traces of outrage.

‘Bitch,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

The reporter didn’t back down. She brandished her huge microphone like a weapon.

‘Do you belong to a neo-Nazi organization?’

The girl tossed her head and pouted, looking even younger.

‘I’m the secretary of the Katrineholm NP,’ she boasted.

That’s it
, Annika thought.
The label. She is somebody.

‘How do you feel about immigrants?’

The girl shifted position, her feet further apart now, making her look more solid.

‘I believe in white supremacy,’ she said.

‘Then you think we should throw all the immigrants out of this country?’

Something glittered in the girl’s eyes, a reflection of their dark, destructive depths.

Stop it
, Annika thought.
You’re just digging a deeper hole for yourself.

‘I think Sweden belongs to the Swedes,’ she said.

‘Do you believe we should kill immigrants? Michelle Carlsson was an immigrant, right?’

The TV camera whirred. Darkness took hold of the girl’s eyes. Her voice was as smooth as silk when she spoke:

‘She was?’

Then she walked away from the camera, passing through the small group of photographers and reporters, and headed for her car. Swiftly, Annika went in the opposite direction, reaching the battered Fiat by walking along the wall.

‘Where did you get the gun?’ she asked the girl in a whisper.

Hannah Persson stopped short with the key in the car door, and looked up at Annika in surprise. For several seconds her eyes were expressionless. Then they came alive and her face brightened.

‘Annika!’ she said. ‘Annika Bengtzon! You’re from Hälleforsnäs!’

She let go of the car key and walked around the car, waving her arms.

‘How …?’ Annika said.

The white supremacist laughed.

‘Of course I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are. I heard your husband left you.’

Annika was speechless and stunned. The words struck her full force in the solar plexus.

The girl walked up to her, close. Annika stared at the scratch on her neck.

‘Hey,’ the girl whispered in her tiny little voice, ‘what’s it like to kill someone?’

Annika gasped for air like a fish out of water and instinctively backed away a few steps.

Hannah Persson followed her, her eyes as beady as a predator’s. Her teeth looked sharp and her breath was stale.

‘Tell me. I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Was it hard? How did it feel afterwards?’

Annika bumped into the wall that separated the parking lot from the grounds, staring at the girl. Suddenly, a wave of rage engulfed her.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ she shouted. ‘Are you some kind of imbecile?’

The sullen expression returned to the white supremacist’s face.

‘Don’t get mad,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to piss you off. I just wondered what it was like, that’s all.’

Hannah glared at Annika and returned to her car. Annika didn’t move. Her heart was racing and her feet felt like they had lost contact with the ground.

Suddenly Bosse was leaning over her, concerned.

‘Annika, are you all right?’

She closed her eyes for a few seconds and breathed with her mouth open, trying to return to normal.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I tried to communicate with our little Nazi. Only the light’s on but nobody’s home …’

‘Q is coming out.’

Annika looked at her fellow reporter and saw honest concern in his eyes, not a trace of craftiness or malice. She averted her gaze. She would have felt victorious if her competitor had missed a press briefing.

They went over to the canal together.

This time Q crossed the tape and stood in the shade of a huge oak tree.

‘The first round of interviews with the witnesses who had resided at Yxtaholm castle on the night of 22 June is now completed,’ he said and looked guardedly at the small group of journalists.

‘We have a picture of the course of events that took place on that occasion. This is why there is no need to detain the witnesses any longer. As you have noticed, most of them have already left.’

Everyone except for Anne
, Annika thought, worry lodging like a hot rock in her gut.

‘The time of death has been established. Michelle Carlsson died somewhere between two and four a.m.,’ the policeman continued. The wind died down and everything was silent.

‘Since two witnesses independently confirmed that they saw her outside the castle at approximately 2:30, this interval can be reduced even further. We have concentrated on the events taking place around the castle building and in the grounds between 2:30 and 4:00 a.m.’

He paused for a few minutes before he continued.

‘There was a great deal of activity during the night. We know that a car drove up the castle drive soon after 3:00 a.m. The two passengers were male; we have identified both the driver and the passenger. Both men have been interviewed, and neither of them is regarded as a suspect in any way.’

The journalists hung expectantly on his every word.

‘In accord with the description provided by a member of the media present at this briefing,’ Q said, looking directly at Annika, ‘the murder weapon is a revolver which had been brought to Yxtaholm by one of the witnesses. A number of fingerprints have been secured from the gun, but they do not implicate a particular assailant.’

‘Is it true that the weapon was stolen from the army?’ the woman from the national broadcasting service asked.

Q looked genuinely surprised.

‘The Swedish Army doesn’t use revolvers,’ he said. ‘The murder weapon was brought into Sweden illegally.’

‘What make is it?’ Bosse asked.

‘One that is totally unknown on the market in this country,’ the policeman said. ‘It’s apparently home-made, and its country of origin is the US. Naturally, we will pursue this and find out how this weapon managed to reach Sweden, but this is of no interest to the murder investigation.’

‘Do you have a suspect?’

The TV team again.

‘We are pursuing the leads provided by forensic evidence and the information given to us by our witnesses,’ Q said.

‘Is an arrest imminent?’ Bosse asked.

‘Not at this point in time, but circumstances change constantly. We are confident that the murder will be solved.’

‘Where is John Essex today?’

Dying of curiosity, the TV reporter’s voice was a near-squawk.

‘He’s on tour in Germany,’ Q replied, ‘I think he’s appearing in Cologne tonight. Any more questions?’

‘Did any other kinds of transportation arrive here during the night?’ Annika asked. ‘Cars, boats, other vehicles?’

The policeman’s eyes narrowed a bit.

‘As far as we know, the car we mentioned is the only vehicle.’

‘Do you believe that one of the twelve people who stayed at the castle is the killer?’ Annika asked, not caring that the others would hear the answer as well. The policeman sighed, leaned back against the tree trunk, and felt for his cigarettes in his breast pocket.

‘We cannot rule that out,’ he said, watchfulness making his eyes gleam.

Annika concentrated on the expression in his eyes, trying to read the message behind his intense blue stare.
He’s telling us this because he wants us to write about it, to pass it on. He wants us to spread the word that one of the guests at the castle could be the killer because it suits his purposes. And what could those purposes be?

The policeman sensed her scrutiny and met her gaze. He lit a cigarette and swallowed the smoke.

It was impossible to speculate any further, she realized. Either it was true that one of the twelve guests really was the killer, and he wanted to throw that person off balance. Or he believed that the killer was an outsider, and in that case he wanted that person to be lulled into a false sense of security.

He saw right through her.

‘All right,’ the lieutenant said. ‘We’re getting ready to pack up and go back home to Stockholm. As of tomorrow, I hope our press representative will take over these briefing sessions.’

‘Can’t you tell us anything else?’ Bosse pleaded.

Q stopped resting against the tree trunk and slowly walked over to the police tape. Was his body language resigned? Annika wondered. Or pretending restraint?

‘Damn,’ Bosse exclaimed. ‘The guy doesn’t give us a thing.’

‘The stuff about the car and the time of death were news to me,’ Annika said. As soon as she had uttered the words, she saw Anne Snapphane exit the South Wing, weighted down with luggage. A wave of relief flooded through Annika’s system. Unconsciously, she took a few steps towards the tape and raised her arm to wave. But Anne didn’t see her. Her gaze was fixed firmly on the ground and her back was bent. It looked as if her bags were extremely heavy.

‘Can I give you a hand?’ Annika asked Anne Snapphane as she crawled under the tape, her face white and beaded with perspiration.

Her friend looked up, her mouth half-open, her eyes frightened. Then she exhaled sharply and almost smiled.

‘I thought you had left already.’

‘Without covering the whole story?’

Annika looked at her friend. She had changed; something in her demeanour was very different from how it had been last Sunday, when the two of them had been out with Annika’s children at Djurgården. Her hair had lost its lustre, even though it was freshly tinted, and her skin looked more transparent, thinner. There was fear in her eyes and something strangely evasive in the way her shoulders slumped under the weight of her bags.

‘Has it been rough?’ Annika asked.

Anne Snapphane didn’t reply. Her gaze scanned the parking lot.

‘How the hell am I supposed to get back home?’

Her voice was small and flat.