Lifetime (17 page)

‘And?’

‘She was holding that revolver. It was pretty scary, even though we knew it wasn’t loaded.’

‘How did you know that?’

An ironclad door slammed shut somewhere deep inside Anne, sending tingling ripples to her nerves and fingertips, leaving her breathless.

‘I . . . Well . . . I don’t know.’

The policeman saw straight through her, his eyes fishlike, and he dropped the subject.

‘What were they fighting about?’

Anne regained her ability to breathe, and searched her memory while slowly rubbing her forehead.

‘It was something about a contract. I don’t know how the fight got started, it was already way out of hand by the time I arrived. Michelle wasn’t really all there. She was, how should I put this, incoherent. Went on about how Mariana should be happy now, how everyone should be pleased tonight since they’d all got what they wanted, that she was headed for the garbage disposal, stuff like that . . .’

‘Did you get the feeling that Michelle Carlsson was unbalanced?’

Anne cackled with laughter and then sighed.

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘I would like you to keep this to yourself,’ Q said, ‘but could Michelle have taken her own life?’

Anne Snapphane gasped and felt her eyes open wide, a sensation followed by a wave of relief so strong she almost lost control of her bladder.

‘You’re asking could she have shot herself?’ she whispered.

The detective nodded.

Yes
, Anne thought.
She shot herself. It wasn’t one of us. She did it, her death was her own fault. It had nothing to do with us.

A second later realization hit her like a punch in the gut.

That would mean that we were even more to blame.

She shut her eyes in concentration.
Could Michelle have taken her own life?

No.

She looked up at Q.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, someone else did it.’

Suddenly less sure, she asked:

‘Why do you ask? Did you find a letter?’

The police officer’s intense gaze nailed Anne to the backrest of her chair. Her body tensed and grew rigid.

‘Did you see anyone else handle the gun?’

The silence grew oppressive. Anne forced oxygen into her lungs, her terrified thoughts shooting through her mind like bolts of lightning.

‘Hmm,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know.’

Buying time.

‘Think about it.’

Somewhere a clock was ticking. Anne turned her head to locate the source of the noise without success.

‘We found your prints on the gun,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Could you explain that?’

Anne’s mind went absolutely blank. The blood drained from her heard and she felt the colour drain from her lips.

‘Here, have some water,’ Q said, pushing a glass in her direction.

Anne Snapphane tried to take it, but spilled it and gave up.

‘I didn’t do it,’ she whispered.

‘Then who did?’

She shook her head. Her throat felt like it was coated with shards of glass.

‘When did you handle the gun?’

‘In the lounge over by the South Wing.’

Each word tore at her throat.

‘Was that before or after the fight at the Stables?’

Anne closed her eyes and felt her tear canals start to burn.

‘After, I think.’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to feel how heavy it was.’

As soon as she had said the words, she regretted it, the flimsiness of her explanation mocking her.

‘When did you see the gun for the last time, apart from in the bus, after the murder?’

The image bank of her
corpus collosum
was flooded with fuzzy pictures, the product of alcohol and fatigue, a photo album of blurry outlines and confused emotions.

‘On the table in the lounge,’ she said after a while.

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Fairly sure.’

‘What time could that have been?’

‘I don’t know. After the Stables. Maybe even after Mariana’s and Bambi’s argument about nudie pictures. Say, 2:30?’

She met Q’s gaze. It was cold and aloof.

‘And then what? Where did you go?’

Anne made an effort to remember.

‘I tried to get some sleep, but there was too much of a ruckus going on so I got up again.’

‘So, after three o’clock, you were in your room over in the South Wing?’

She searched her memory and nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s probably right.’ And her breathing returned to normal.

‘Then could you explain why you were observed in front of the bus at 3:15 a.m.?’

The room started reeling and Anne grabbed on to the table and tried to keep her voice steady.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Who saw me?’

‘Actually, several people did. Why would you go to the bus at three in the morning?’

Her head moved from side to side – no, no, no.

‘I don’t remember.’

The reply was like air being expelled.

‘Come on. Your memory’s been pretty good up to now.’

Frantically searching that memory Anne thought, dear Lord, what had she done? What had she said? Where had she been?

‘I . . . went for a swim?’

‘In the pouring rain? Come on, Anne Snapphane. If you’re going to lie, at least try to make it a good one.’

The detective’s words oozed contempt.

‘I don’t remember,’ she said, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. She looked up and let the tears flow. Her voice broke, wavering and indistinct.

‘I don’t remember. You’ve got to believe me! I was pretty drunk, I must have gone the wrong way or something. I was going to go to the South Wing and I guess I wandered around some. I didn’t do it!’

The waiting left Annika hot and restless. The sunlight sliced pathways through the leaves and the air stood still. The sheep gathered around the journalists, smelling of wool and crap. She distanced herself from them all, the animals and her colleagues, strangely affected by the situation.

After Mariana and Bambi the parade of witnesses had ceased. The other journalists didn’t seem to mind. They chatted, leaning against walls and rocks.

Annika walked over to the Stables and tried the door. Locked. Then she sat down on the steps and took a few deep breaths, trying to find some freshness in the breeze. She hesitated momentarily, then picked up her cellphone again. ‘You have . . . no messages.’ She swallowed her disappointment. He didn’t have time to call, not with the kids and everything.

‘Did you ever meet her?’

Confused, she looked up and was blinded by the sun, so she put her hand up like a visor. It was Bosse, the reporter who worked for Sweden’s other major tabloid.

‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, realizing that she wasn’t sure.

She let her hand drop and chewed on the inside of one cheek. Didn’t she run into Michelle Carlsson once, on a job, or was it something Anne Snapphane had mentioned, or even something she’d seen on TV?

‘No,’ Annika said at last to the dark silhouette. ‘I don’t think so. But I do know Anne Snapphane, one of her associates, and I’ve been to Zero’s offices now and then. It feels like I know her.’

Bosse sighed, sat down next to her without waiting for an invitation and stretched out his legs.

‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I’ve met Karin Bellhorn a few times at dinners and events like that, and she’s told me stuff about Michelle. Like how hard it was for her to deal with her success. How it wore her down. How unbalanced she could be, touchy and weepy. How euphoric she would get when the camera was rolling or if she got some attention.’

‘It’s kind of sad,’ Annika said. ‘That success is such a big deal.’

The other paper’s reporter picked up a small stick and traced figures in the dust on the stone steps.

‘We feel the same way, you know. We love it when celebrities do good. It’s almost as nice as when they fail.’

‘Someone’s coming,’ Annika said.

They got up, and as if they had been given a signal the photographers shouldered their cameras and sharpened their gazes while Annika and Bosse felt for their pads and pens. Stefan Axelsson was tall, rangy and blond, and the stubble on his face was peppered with grey. Cautiously, Annika approached the technical director along with the rest of the group. When no one else made an attempt to communicate – everyone just stood there staring at him – she stepped up, introduced herself, and asked an innocuous question.

‘Leave me alone,’ he snapped, his eyes red and his forehead shiny. ‘Leave
her
alone.’

‘That was Axelsson, wasn’t it?’ Bosse asked.

‘He’s reputed to be quite a bastard,’ Annika replied as the man drove off in his old Saab. ‘But he’s brilliant at his job.’

The other reporter nodded.

The dust on the road had barely settled before the next witness came sailing down the hill. Barbara Hanson needed no introduction. She kissed Bertil Strand on both cheeks and proclaimed in a loud voice that her bed had been uncomfortable, that the policemen were handsome, and that the weather had been frightful.

‘Oh my God,’ Bosse exclaimed. ‘Is she always like that?’

Annika simply rolled her eyes.

A minute later, Carl Wennergren appeared. Annika could see him coming from a distance.

‘Don’t waste your breath on him,’ she whispered to Bosse. ‘I tried to talk to him yesterday, but he wouldn’t tell me anything, even though we sit more or less next to each other in the newsroom.’

‘Yesterday?’ the reporter said in surprise. ‘How did you manage to do that?’

She lifted her fingertip to her lips and smiled. Carl Wennergren got into his BMW and drove off without anyone trying to talk to him.

‘Here comes the next one,’ Bosse said, and pointed.

Even at that distance, Annika could recognize the CEO of TV Plus in spite of the fact that she’d never actually met him. He liked to be seen at parties with the in crowd and he promoted his own channel in commercials. Highlander, the immortal one.

He swiftly climbed over the tape; his hair was glossy and black, his suit was impeccable and he wasn’t carrying any luggage. Annika joined the other reporters and approached him, intuitively anticipating an unpleasant situation.

The man tried to appear confident and relaxed, but his smile didn’t quite reach his soul. Under his tan he was pale, and a lack of sleep had carved sharp lines around his eyes.

‘I would like to start by saying that this is a tragedy for TV Plus,’ he said without waiting for a question.

The small assembly of reporters and photographers gathered around him in silence, an impromptu press conference accompanied by bleating sheep.

‘Naturally, this terrible loss will have an impact on our entire network. Michelle Carlsson was one of our most esteemed associates,’ Highlander said as he fingered a creased piece of paper in one hand.

‘On a personal note,’ he continued, ‘I would like to add that Michelle was a very dear friend, a very good friend, one whom I appreciated for her great . . . warmth, and her considerable . . . professional expertise.’

He faltered, paused and glanced quickly at his notes for a few seconds. Lowering the paper again, he looked up and wet his lips before speaking.

‘We here at TV Plus will honour and cherish Michelle’s memory,’ he continued in a voice aimed at the birds and the treetops. ‘History will prove that she was one of the great personalities of our time. Her shows will live on, a legacy to future generations of viewers and TV associates. This is a legacy that we here at TV Plus aim to hold in trust, and I promise you that we take this responsibility seriously.’

‘Jesus,’ Bosse whispered to Annika. ‘Next he’ll be sprouting wings.’

She bit her lip. The combined effect of the TV executive’s pompous words and perfumed exterior made her want to giggle.

‘What will happen to the shows you taped this week?’ the woman from the national broadcasting service asked.

‘Here’s someone who’s got her priorities straight,’ the reporter for the competition said, leaning close to Annika. ‘First things first – find out what happens to the shows.’

Suppressed laughter welled up inside Annika. She turned around and tried to hide it by covering her mouth with her hands. Highlander, who had started to answer a question, was distracted and stared in her direction.

‘Is . . . What’s so amusing?’ he asked, his eyes darting around the crowd.

‘’I’m sorry,’ Annika replied, struggling to control herself. ‘I swallowed my gum.’

The truly pitiful lie caused Bosse to start shaking with silent laughter himself. He turned and walked away from the group. Annika looked up at the treetops, taking in the bright, clear colours. None of this was actually happening; it was all a show, a bad reality-TV show.

‘This series represents our TV Plus summer special,’ Highlander said, his suit standing out like a silvery silhouette against the water. ‘It was intended to give us an edge in the competition with the terrestrial networks, as well as with regard to the other satellite TV networks.’

‘Will you be airing the shows, and if so, when?’ the persistent female broadcaster continued.

Highlander wiped away a small moustache of perspiration on his upper lip.

‘At the present time I’m unable to give you a reply,’ he said. ‘Naturally, I’ll have to confer with the head office over in London first, and delineate our policy for the commemoration of Michelle’s memory. The airing of
Summer Frolic at the Castle
is a part of our strategy and as such must be given due consideration.’

The man glanced down again, fingering his notes. His whole face had now broken out in a sweat, causing his waxed bangs to wilt. Suddenly Annika saw the man as he truly was, deathly pale and under strain, on the verge of tears.

‘How are you holding up?’ she heard herself ask.

He glanced up without looking at anyone in particular.

‘The past few days have been rough,’ he said. ‘Really rough. The entire future of the network hangs in the balance.’

‘Actually, I meant you personally,’ Annika said. ‘What’s your reaction to the fact that your associate was murdered while she was taping a show for you?’

Highlander crumpled up his notes into a ball, shoved it into his pocket and strode off towards the car. The photographers were hot on his heels, causing the man to break into a near-run. Annika remained where she was and saw him get into his huge vehicle and sit there for a while, slumped over the wheel.