Lifetime (29 page)

‘An interview in exchange for keeping mum about where that gun had been.’

‘Do you think he . . .?’

The silence, tainted by the unmentionable, hung over them.

‘Have you heard about Carl Wennergren’s pictures?’ Annika asked in a low voice.

Berit looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Remember how I told you that Carl Wennergren was looking for something over at the Stables? It was a camera. I’ve seen the pictures. Michelle Carlsson and John Essex, sex every which way, from the rear, from the front, from above, from below . . .’

Wide-eyed and sceptical, Berit asked: ‘Who knows about this?’

‘I don’t know,’ Annika said. ‘Just Schyman and me, I guess.’

They looked at each other and considered the situation.

‘His fans are like twelve years old and up,’ Annika continued in a low voice. ‘The word “detrimental” is way too mild to describe what would happen if those pictures and the information about the revolver were published.’

‘This paper would never . . .’ Berit said.

‘He doesn’t know that,’ Annika countered.

Silence descended again.

‘When did Carl take those pictures?’ Berit asked.

‘He took them over at the Stables. On the sly.’

Slowly, Berit nodded and Annika put her feet up on her desk.

‘Who are you going with?’

‘I’ll be joining Henriksson, the new guy, in Frankfurt.’

Annika leaned back and studied her colleague as she walked through the newsroom. Berit looked so resolute and straightforward, calm and at home in her surroundings as she exchanged a few words with Spike, laughed and patted Picture Pelle on the arm, and greeted Tore Brand on her way out.

She had been married to the same man for twenty-three years, Annika thought. How could that be possible? Where did you find the patience and the sense of security, the conviction that you had made the right choice? How did you find the strength to put your faith in love?

Anne Snapphane walked quickly to the exit. She wanted to get away from the newsroom, away from Karin Bellhorn’s words, and she tensed her shoulders to shut out the woman’s voice.

To no avail.

‘Anne? Could you wait up? It won’t take long.’

She stopped in mid-step, letting her arms drop and sighing. With a great effort, she turned around and saw Karin Bellhorn waving to her. Mariana von Berlitz and Sebastian Follin were also on their way to the lounge.

‘I’ve got to go home,’ Anne said. ‘I’ve got to pick Miranda up at day care.’

An excuse.

‘We covered a lot of ground today, didn’t we?’ the producer said. ‘The whole season is outlined, the memorial is planned, the press release has been issued . . . I think the meeting went very well.’

No one answered, so Karin Bellhorn decided to get to the point.

‘Let’s discuss Michelle Carlsson’s estate,’ she said over her shoulder as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

Making her point, Anne Snapphane remained in the doorway, leaning against the frame and keeping her jacket on. The producer took her time settling on the counter, then started the fan running and lit a cigarette.

‘When I got in this morning there was quite a squabble going on in Michelle’s office,’ she explained to Anne. ‘That’s why I want you all to know a few things.’

Mariana pulled up a chair and sat down on the other side of the door. Sebastian Follin was fussing with the coffee.

‘At the present time, no one is allowed to touch the contents of Michelle’s office. We have taken on a lawyer to go through all the contracts and figure out exactly who is entitled to what, who owns the rights to her material, and who will be paid for the use of previously published material, new material and reruns. In addition to this, the lawyer will review Michelle’s personal assets, find out if there is a will, and figure out who her heirs are.’

‘Why should we pay for a lawyer to review her personal affairs?’ Mariana asked, her voice still sharp in spite of her fatigue.

Karin Bellhorn took a long drag on her cigarette and expelled the thin stream of smoke in the direction of the fan.

‘We’ll deduct it from your salary,’ she said with a wan smile.

Mariana pursed her lips.

‘At any rate, the documentary is mine,’ Sebastian Follin said.

‘Leave that to the lawyer,’ the producer said.

The manager downed his coffee in one gulp, set the cup down on the counter and picked up his briefcase.

‘I’ve got a meeting to attend,’ he said as he headed for the exit. ‘Good to see you.’

No one responded. Anne stood up to follow him to the door when Karin Bellhorn’s cellphone rang.

‘Could you please wait a minute,’ the producer said to Mariana and Anne as she studied the display. ‘I’ve got to take this call, but there’s something I really would like to discuss with you. I’ll be right back.’

She vanished in the direction of the smoking lounge, a cloud of cigarette smoke trailing behind her like a wispy silk scarf.

The coffee lounge remained oppressively silent. Anne Snapphane sighed aloud, then perched on a table and rested her chin in one hand. Mariana von Berlitz concentrated on smoothing the skirt of her red dress until she could no longer stand the silence.

‘You have no idea what Michelle put me through over the years,’ she finally said.

Anne didn’t respond, trying to study Karin’s trail of smoke as long as she could before it dispersed.

‘We had a good thing going at high school before she turned up,’ Mariana continued. ‘People were involved in music societies, drama groups, the temperance movement, several political parties had youth leagues at school, and several Christian societies were active too. Everything fell apart once Michelle turned up.’

Anne Snapphane glanced at Mariana, then tried in vain to locate the grey veil again.

‘What do you mean?’ she said. ‘Did Michelle spoil your tidy little world?’

‘She never threatened
my
world,’ Mariana von Berlitz said with conviction. ‘But not everyone’s faith was as strong.’

Anne let out a loud sigh and craned her neck to see what Karin was up to in the smoking lounge.

‘She came to our school the second year of high school,’ Mariana went on, her voice coloured with stale nostalgia. ‘Michelle Carlsson smoked, drank and arranged school dances. As far as I knew, she had at least four boyfriends in less than two years.’

Anne Snapphane rolled her eyes.

‘Spare me the details,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hear them.’

Mariana von Berlitz sat up straighter, two red spots on her cheeks.

‘Why not? Can’t you take the truth? You were so concerned about the truth before the meeting. Michelle had no class, no morals. She ran around informing freshman students about contraceptives and had a really bad influence on the entire class. The societies and clubs had a hard time keeping their members – the kids went to bars, discos and hockey games instead. Michelle changed the standards of what was acceptable and respectable. I think it’s a dangerous thing when people like her have too much influence.’

Anne couldn’t sit still any longer.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Get real. She was just an ordinary kid. You’re making her out to be the Antichrist.’

Mariana remained seated and cocked her head a little.

‘I believe that there should be a common foundation of values, and these values need to be preserved for the good of society. Turning a person like Michelle into a role model is outrageous, it’s actually dangerous.’

‘I can’t bear to hear another word,’ Anne Snapphane said.

She bent down to pick up her bag.

Mariana von Berlitz got up.

‘You ought to watch your step too,’ she said. ‘Making derogatory remarks about God, like you did earlier, won’t do you any good.’

Rage made Anne’s head pound like it had before the meeting, rubbing out boundary lines and causing reality to tilt.

‘Do you mean that he would strike me down?’

She took a step closer to Mariana.

‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I feel so damn sorry for you. You’ve been stiffed. Your God is only Jahveh, an ancient Jewish tribal god. Did you know that the old tales say that he used to live in a volcano? He was just one of many gods – there were male
and
female deities. The only difference is that the others are forgotten now, and so is the volcano.’

‘Don’t be too sure of yourself,’ Mariana said, backing away.

‘Jahveh has been transformed into God and Allah, an almighty god, just because it suited the purpose of the male-orientated society. Every last female deity was overthrown and then women could be enslaved. In the name of your tribal god, our joy and sexuality were stripped from us, and that’s something you go around and
celebrate
?’

‘Watch it,’ Mariana von Berlitz warned her.

But Anne was still furious.

‘Are you threatening me? Is that what you’re doing? Is it my turn now? Do you plan to get rid of me, expel the next wicked lower-class whore from your sight?’

Karin Bellhorn shut the door of the smoking lounge and sailed over to them, cellphone in hand.

‘Actually, all I wanted was to ask you to not fight,’ she said.

Anne slung her bag over her shoulder and left the newsroom without another word.

Annika put her feet back down on the floor. She got her stuff together, sent off her article on the computer and put on her jacket.

‘The night shift will have to fill in the details from the police interview with the neo-Nazi kid,’ she told Spike, barely slowing down on her way to the exit. ‘Ask them to check in with the police and see if there are any new developments. You can reach me on my cellphone . . .’

‘Why aren’t you taking your calls?’ Tore Brand asked her in an irritated voice as she passed the newsroom lobby.

‘Because I’m here,’ Annika said. ‘What is it?’

‘You’ve got a visitor,’ the man said, pointing at the sofa.

It took a few seconds before Annika recognized him.

‘Sebastian Follin,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’

The manager quickly got up, adjusted his glasses and stretched out a hand. Annika took it gingerly, remembering his damp, limp handshake.

‘What a pleasure,’ the man said. ‘I’d really like to have a word with you.’

‘Actually, I’m on my way out,’ Annika said, pulling back her hand.

‘I’d have thought it was important to get the facts straight when you write for a paper,’ Follin said. ‘That’s why I wanted to tell you the real story.’

Annika studied him uncertainly, not sure if his presence pleased or irritated her.

‘Of course. We can sit here,’ she said.

She took off her jacket again and sank down on the sofa, noticing how Tore Brand opened a paper and pricked up his ears.

‘I would like to start by informing you that I will be taking over all of Michelle Carlsson’s interests as of today,’ the manager said as he sat down again. ‘If you have any questions about her business activities and her estate, come to me.’

Politely, Annika picked up her pad and pen and let them rest in her lap.

‘How would you describe the taping session of
Summer Frolic at the Castle
?’ she asked as a diversion.

‘As very successful,’ the manager said. ‘Well, apart from the weather, that is. This type of programme really suited us – it’s what we do best, family entertainment with a broad appeal interspersed with serious journalistic segments. No one can top us there.’

Annika looked down at her lap, carefully choosing her words.

‘It must have been quite a blow,’ she said, throwing out a feeler and opening her pad.

‘It was dreadful,’ Follin said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. ‘When someone close to you dies suddenly, it’s always a shock, but then there are all these additional aspects, all these people out to make a profit. In the future I’m going to guard our rights.’

Annika sharpened her attention and studied the man more closely. The pale eyes had sprung back to life and his complexion was rosy. He had bounced back quickly.

‘Why is this your job?’ she asked.

Follin blinked with surprise.

‘We were a team,’ he said. ‘I’m her manager. Well, more than that, we were confidants, we were each other’s only friend. We were a team,’ he repeated, ‘a couple, it was us two against the world. I won’t let her down now.’

‘I thought Bambi Rosenberg was Michelle’s best friend,’ Annika said.

The man’s expression changed. He leaned close to Annika, staring at her. His coffee-laden breath was in her face.

‘I have to warn you about Bambi Rosenberg,’ the manager whispered, his eyes wide. ‘If she tries to contact you, remember that she is totally untrustworthy. Totally untrustworthy!’

Annika pulled back to get out of the range of the stench of coffee but kept looking him in the eye.

‘In what way?’ she asked calmly.

The man leaned in even closer, raising his voice.

‘It doesn’t make sense that Michelle would want to associate with a nobody like her,’ he said. ‘They can’t have had anything in common. Michelle was a natural, truly and uniquely talented. Bambi Rosenberg is a surgically enhanced dime-a-dozen bimbo who hitched a ride on Michelle’s star. I tried to talk to Michelle about it, but she wouldn’t listen.’

Feeling uncomfortable, Annika shrank back against the backrest.

Trying to open another avenue she said: ‘That last night at the castle appears to have been rather rowdy.’

‘A little parasite, that’s what she is. A little slut who won’t let go. But the documentary is mine now, mine! And I’ve got the paperwork to prove it.’

Annika stared at Follin, feeling herself grow increasingly uneasy.

‘What documentary would that be? The one that Michelle was making about herself?’

‘I’m not sure I’ll let TV Plus air it. There are quite a few other interested parties, and my job is to take care of Michelle’s assets and negotiate the best possible contract for us.’

‘I thought she had terminated your contract,’ Annika said and waited for the reaction.

And there certainly was one. Follin stopped short as if he’d been slapped, his mouth open, ready to say something. Gasping for air.