Lifetime (25 page)

Annika wiped her mouth with an old napkin and thought about Schyman’s peculiar private assignment.

‘It was a mistake to bring her back from Lisbon,’ Berit declared, studying Barbara Hanson’s column again. ‘At least she couldn’t do any harm over there.’

‘She didn’t do a darn thing in Lisbon besides run up bills,’ Annika said.

Berit Hamrin got up and took off her jacket.

‘It might cost us a lot more to let her do as she pleases in print. This is libel, for goodness’ sake. What do you think of the rest of the paper?’

Annika picked up her own copy of
Kvällspressen
and opened it to the news pages. Assisted by Jansson, the night editor, she and Berit had pieced together the entire layout last night. Torstensson had been seated nearby, looking preoccupied and uneasy, and his presence had caused them to keep their voices down and hold back on the cynical banter. The results had turned out more or less according to plan: Michelle’s final hours, the difficult taping session, the mysterious driver and passenger, and the feature about the suspects, as tricky as a walk on a tightrope, that had the headline ‘Tightening the net’. Other pages featured reactions from the entertainment community, a discussion of the future of TV and speculations about if
Summer Frolic at the Castle
would now be aired. Berit and Annika had sifted through all the material, they had edited each other’s pieces and all their articles had a double byline.

‘It looks fine,’ Annika said.

‘Check out the next page,’ Berit said.

The entertainment section had sent a team to Cologne to cover the John Essex concert. They had managed to get a shot of him getting into his limo in front of the hotel but they didn’t get a statement.

Annika studied the picture: the man’s wary body language, the anonymous faces of the girls in the crowd, made blurry by the distance and their fervour, the jungle of clutching hands, the silent screams.

It was a suggestive image, backlit and shadowy, yet still striking and expressive. Questions popped up in her mind.

How does he stand it? What could possibly make up for the lack of privacy? What price are people prepared to pay for approval?

‘Who took this?’ she asked.

‘Some new guy, an extra photographer for the entertainment section. His name is Henriksson. Have you talked to Q yet?’

‘I was just going to call him.’

Berit Hamrin got up, picked up her jacket, her paper and her bag and went over to her desk, located a few desks down from Annika’s.

Annika picked up their competitor’s paper, leafing past the op-ed and culture sections to reach the news spread on pages six and seven. She saw his picture byline.

Bosse, looking serious and a few years younger than he actually was, gazed up at her from the pages of the paper. She recalled the heat, the giddiness.

She dismissed the feeling and picked up the phone, dialling the number from memory.

The policeman answered.

‘Where were you yesterday?’ she heard herself demand. ‘I called you like crazy all night long.’

The line crackled and there was a soft rustling sound in the distance.

‘I’m kind of busy. What do you want?’

Realizing that she wasn’t really prepared, Annika scratched her head and rifled through her notes.

‘The forensic investigation,’ she said. ‘You’ve identified a shitload of prints found on the murder weapon, right?’

‘I told you that yesterday.’

She bit her lip.

‘How many?’

‘None that can be attributed to a particular assailant.’

‘Prints from all of them? All twelve?’

A split-second pause, the sound of the wind whistling.

‘Actually, all thirteen of them,’ he said.

Annika’s eyes widened.

‘Michelle’s prints too? Could she have shot herself?’

‘The thought has occurred to us,’ he said dryly. ‘But the evidence doesn’t support it. No letter, no talk of suicide. We believe someone else pulled the trigger.’

‘Who?’

He laughed, almost sadly.

‘Think before you ask stuff like that.’

She grew silent and skimmed her notes.

‘The weapon,’ she said. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘I told you that yesterday as well.’

‘It was big, a heavy ornate piece. Was it an antique?’

‘Nope. It was new.’

‘So, it was a copy. Of what?’

‘I don’t know. The original replica wasn’t lethal. The barrel’s been drilled, and the girl who owned it wasn’t very forthcoming.’

‘So what does she say?’

‘Nothing. We’re going to pull her in again. A patrol’s on its way.’

Annika raised an eyebrow in surprise and jotted this information down.

‘You’re going to arrest the little Nazi?’

‘That’s right.’

‘For murder?’

‘Illegal possession of a weapon. Don’t make too much of it.’

‘Will she be remanded in custody?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, but you never know.’

Annika paused briefly and then asked:

‘It was one of the twelve guests, wasn’t it?’

The policeman didn’t reply.

‘Well, it wasn’t Anne Snapphane or Gunnar Antonsson,’ she said.

‘Do you expect me to play
Ten Little Indians
with you?’

The poor connection diluted the sarcasm of his tone. Annika didn’t intend to let him off the hook.

‘You told me yesterday that you had a picture of the events . . .’

‘That’s true.’

‘And that someone is lying. Who?’

‘If only it were that simple,’ he said. ‘Every last one of them is lying about something. They all claim that they didn’t touch the revolver, for example. And what makes you exclude Snapphane and Antonsson?’

‘Do you really want to know, or are you being sarcastic again?’

She heard him light a cigarette, inhaling and sighing.

‘Tell me,’ he said, exhaling a stream of smoke, a gust in her ear.

‘I know Anne,’ Annika said. ‘She would never do such a thing, and all that. And Gunnar Antonsson is too . . . conscientious.’

‘I see,’ the policeman said, no longer hiding his scorn. ‘Who else can we cross off the list?’

‘The little Nazi,’ Annika said. ‘She doesn’t know what it’s like to kill someone, but she would like to.’

‘How do you know that?’

His voice was grave now.

‘What’s in it for me?’

The detective took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled audibly. It sounded as if he was walking around while he took another greedy drag as he considered his next move.

‘The shot to the head killed Michelle Carlsson,’ he said. ‘There were no other wounds on the body. Semen was found in her vagina. There was no sign of a struggle in the control room. There were traces of vaginal fluids on the murder weapon. What makes you think Hannah Persson is innocent?’

Annika froze in her chair, a sheet of ice covering her head and back.

‘Traces of vaginal fluids on the murder weapon? Is
that
what you said?’

‘The whole butt, the barrel and the trigger. She can’t have had the whole gun inside her, that’s anatomically impossible, so someone must have plunged it in and out of her at different angles – either another person or she did it herself.’

‘Was it . . . loaded during these . . . escapades?’

‘As far as we can tell, yes.’

Something stirred in Annika’s gut, a wave of nausea. It filled her belly and her chest, almost making her vomit.

‘That’s disgusting,’ she said.

‘Hannah Persson,’ Q urged.

Annika closed her eyes, put her hand on her forehead and started breathing with her mouth open.

‘Hello?’ the policeman called out. ‘You still there?’

Annika cleared her throat.

‘She pounced on me in the parking lot and asked what it was like to kill someone.’

‘She knew who you were?’

‘Absolutely. She asked me if it was hard, what it felt like afterwards and she told me she had always wondered what it was like.’

‘Maybe she wanted to compare notes?’

‘No,’ Annika said. ‘She was curious. She didn’t know. She had toyed with the idea without daring to go for it. I know that’s the truth.’

‘The stuff about the bodily fluids won’t go down well in a family paper like
Kvällspressen
,’ Q said.

‘It’s all in the phrasing,’ Annika assured him and the conversation was over.

She held the receiver for a few seconds, choking back her sensation of disgust.

‘How did it go?’ Berit called out.

Annika hung up.

‘Let’s go and have some coffee.’

Bambi Rosenberg picked her way carefully up the hill to the offices of Zero Television. Sharp gravel slid under her feet and cut into the thin leather soles of her ankle boots.

Her jeans rode up uncomfortably. She had gained weight.

It was difficult to move and she stopped. Breathing was difficult, simply existing was difficult. She squinted to study the row of windows on the third floor, trying to make out Michelle’s. The cloudy weather eliminated that possibility.

Now there was no one around who could understand.

There was no way she could ward off this insight. It was as if it had been rammed down her throat and had got stuck there, making her want to throw up.

She was alone again. Oh, dear God, she was on her own again, the closeness was over, gone.

A cold wind nipped at Bambi’s stomach and she pulled the leather jacket tighter.

How was she going to survive without Michelle?

Now things would go back to the way they used to be.

Feeling lost and vulnerable, too much wine, too many different groping hands on her body. Just like in the old days.

She hurried up and stumbled along.

The door was as heavy as if it had been a stone slab. Bambi had to dig her heels in to yank it open. One of her heels slipped and the strap of her shoulder bag shot down to her elbow, causing the bag to slam into her knees and the flap to fly open. Mascara, lip gloss, a caramel chocolate bar and a few stray tampons rolled out on the gravel and tears stung her eyes. She looked for something to prop up the door with, but she was out of luck. Bending over and keeping the door open with her behind, she gathered up her belongings. One of the tampons had landed in a small puddle where it had blossomed to four times its original size, so she left it there.

Bambi had never liked Zero Television.

She took the elevator even though she should have taken the stairs.
Get in shape, start thinking.
Michelle’s voice came to her, a ghostly echo under the fluorescent lights.
Don’t skip lunch, it ruins your metabolism. Lose the potato crisps, they’re pure fat and starch. Orange-peel thighs, now how much fun is that?

Gingerly she walked into the newsroom, so stark and deserted, computers and papers, dust and coffee stains. She stopped right next to the door. Someone had to be here, the lights were on everywhere, so she listened. The air-conditioning was on, humming with frigid air, but she couldn’t hear anything else.

Quickly, Bambi walked over to Michelle’s office.

As soon as she had reached the lounge, she saw his back. A short grey jacket covering a shapeless chubby form.

The rush of adrenalin made her feet fly.

‘What are you up to?’

Sebastian Follin looked up, his forehead glistening with sweat and his hair on end from standing bent over.

‘Oh, it’s you . . .’

He turned away again and continued to remove papers from the bottom drawer. Michelle’s files.

Bambi Rosenberg went up to the desk, placing her hands protectively over the disorder on the desk and pushed past Sebastian Follin.

‘This stuff belongs to Michelle. What are you doing to Michelle?’

‘The police have already searched through it all. There isn’t anything of value here for them. It’s my property now.’

Bambi stared down at the balding spot on his crown.

‘No, it isn’t!’ she said. ‘This is Michelle’s stuff, her private possessions. You don’t have any business messing with it.’

With considerable effort, the manager got up, his left hand supporting the small of his back.

‘Come on, toots,’ he said in a slightly reproaching voice, his eyebrows arched. ‘This material concerns Michelle’s business, and since I’m in charge of her business I want to make sure it won’t wind up in the wrong hands.’

‘But,’ Bambi Rosenberg protested, ‘that’s not true. You don’t have a claim on her. You aren’t entitled to her things now that she’s dead.’

The man’s features were contorted. His chest had sunken in and he looked even chunkier. His hair had flopped into the eyes that had narrowed into slits behind his glasses. He raised his hands.

‘Get out of here,’ he hissed. ‘Beat it. I’m in charge now.’

Bambi Rosenberg blinked a few times, noting the man’s aggression but still not registering it.

‘You’re out of your mind,’ she said. ‘You don’t have anything to do with Michelle any more. She fired you last Thursday.’

Something happened to Follin, a movement that sharpened his contours. A hardness came over him.

‘What was that?’

His voice was reduced to a hiss.

‘She told me, and she told me she’d told you too. And her word is legally binding . . .’

Sebastian Follin stood utterly still. Bambi could see herself reflected in his glasses.

Suddenly she realized the significance of her words.

She gasped and took a step away from the man.

‘You,’ she said. ‘You did it. She was your whole life, and she took it away from you. If she had been alive the next morning, you would have been out of a job. But now that she’s dead, you think she’s going to be yours for ever . . .’

The shove came from nowhere, striking Bambi at shoulder height, right above her armpits, and making her tumble backwards with a scream.

‘What are you doing, you lunatic?’

‘Shut up,’ Sebastian Follin bellowed, coming up to her, pressing his body against hers, his head reaching no higher than her cleavage, his hands reaching for her neck.

What little hold her heels had on the wall-to-wall carpeting disappeared. Bambi Rosenberg crashed to the floor, biting her tongue as she banged her head on the glass wall, the manager on top of her. She fought for air and managed to scream.