Lifetime (18 page)

‘If you think he felt lousy, check
this
guy out,’ Bosse said and pointed over her shoulder.

A short and rather corpulent man with thinning hair was on his way down the hill. His mouth was slack, the lips chapped and shiny, and he moved jerkily, almost reeling. Annika could sense his bottomless despair and desperation.

‘Poor soul,’ the reporter next to her said.

Sebastian Follin had clipped on dark sunshades over his regular glasses with metallic frames. His complexion was dull and grey, haggard-looking. They saw him make his way slowly towards the parking lot, somehow seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. The journalists left him alone until he reached his car. The national broadcasting team was the first to address him. He didn’t catch the question and looked around in confusion, watching the reporters and photographers with dread.

‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m sure you realize that we will be writing about Michelle’s death in tomorrow’s papers,’ Annika said as she walked up to the man, took his hand and introduced herself. His hand was limp, cold and moist.

‘I just can’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I can’t get it into my head that she’s gone.’

‘You worked with Michelle for many years, didn’t you?’

Annika sensed how the other journalists were concentrating, how they were waiting expectantly for the words to issue from the man’s trembling lips.

‘She was mine,’ Follin said. ‘My very first client. We were a team. I made her what she was.’

Annika nodded and tried to catch the manager’s eye behind the opaqueness of his glasses, sensing his gaze drifting off towards the lake.

‘How did you meet her?’

Sebastian Follin took a few rapid breaths, still avoiding her gaze.

‘It was at the National Road Association,’ he said. ‘Their public relations department. In Växjö. I was in charge there and we needed someone to present . . .’

He stopped talking and some saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. Annika felt a tingling of uneasiness running up and down her spine.

‘So you hired her to do a presentation?’

Follin quickly bowed his head and wiped his chin with amazing speed. Then he clasped his briefcase more firmly.

‘She was incredible,’ he said. ‘It was the best press conference we ever had. She was funny, smart, beautiful – everyone listened when she spoke. It was magic’

He nodded to confirm his words.

‘It was magic. Afterwards I asked her how come she was so good, and she just laughed. That was the way she was. She was a natural. I used her for everything we did after that.’

He swallowed.

‘Where did you find her?’ Annika asked.

‘She was working as a guide on the tourist train in Gränna, and she was a receptionist at Gyllene Uttern. That was . . . five years ago.’

‘You’ve been around her for a long time,’ Annika said.

‘The whole time,’ Follin said, looking at her for the first time. She could detect small pale blue eyes behind the dark lenses.

‘Did you have contacts in the TV business?’

‘My brother’s wife worked at Zero. I negotiated her first contract as a host for a TV show. She was a star in no time at all.’

Annika nodded, realizing that it was true.

‘What other clients do you represent?’ the woman from the national broadcasting service asked.

Sebastian Follin was startled and jerked his head in her direction.

‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘You
are
a manager, aren’t you? Do you only represent TV personalities, or do you have other clients as well?’

The man’s expression hardened, the lines around his mouth tightening.

‘What network do you represent?’ he asked the woman, his voice now shrill.

She mentioned the name of the national news show.

‘I refuse to work with you people,’ he said, abruptly turning away and unlocking the door to his sporty American car.

He almost drove into the wall as he roared away from the parking lot.

Torstensson’s complexion was both pale and blotchy as he walked into the newsroom. He was no longer clad in his traditional folk costume; he’d changed into a pair of warm-up pants and a turtleneck shirt. As always, he looked a bit lost among the computers and news bills, his eyes darting nervously around the newsroom and its staff. Schyman caught sight of him through the glass partition, noted how weak and confused the man seemed and felt a wave of compassion and misgivings.

I can’t do this
, he thought.
You can’t treat people like this.

Then he looked at the newsroom staff: editors and reporters, photographers and photo editors, rewrite people and proof-readers, news-desk editors and night-shift editors. He doubted whether Torstensson knew who they were or what they did.

The editor-in-chief caught sight of him through the glass and approached his corner office, his teeth gritted.

‘I demand an explanation,’ he said. ‘What are you up to?’

Schyman left his desk, walked past the editor-in-chief and closed the glass door. Torstensson looked stooped in his baggy leisure clothes, much smaller than in the bulky suits he usually wore.

‘I’m trying to get this paper on track,’ Schyman replied.

He stood with his back to the door, forcing the other man to face the newsroom and the curious glances of his associates as they whispered to each other.

‘What’s the point of playing games with the chairman of the board? He thought I was the one who okayed the use of the names and pictures of those people.’

The editor-in-chief’s lips were white and dry. He spoke with difficulty, as if talking was painful.

Schyman looked at the man for a few seconds, assessing his will to fight.

‘You
should
have been the one to okay it,’ Schyman said. ‘Isn’t that right? Only we couldn’t get hold of you all day yesterday, even though we called every number we had. You didn’t contact the office either, despite the fact that we left you a dozen or so messages. Did you check out the news at all yesterday?’

‘I had the day off,’ Torstensson said, his ear lobes burning.

The managing editor stared at his superior with astonishment. The man’s incompetence and inability to shoulder responsibility knew no bounds.

‘This is unacceptable,’ Anders Schyman said. ‘The staff of this paper needs to know that they can depend on their management when the going gets tough. We need to be consistent on all levels when it comes to the issues.’

Torstensson wet his lips uncertainly.

‘What do you mean?’

Anders Schyman walked past the editor-in-chief and sat down at his desk again.

‘Barbara Hanson was at Yxtaholm when Michelle Carlsson taped her very last shows,’ he said, looking intently at his boss. ‘Could you please explain why she was there?’

A furrow appeared between Torstensson’s eyebrows and he folded his arms as he turned to face the managing editor’s desk.

‘She asked to cover the event. It
is
her job, you know.’

Anders Schyman forced himself to not move a muscle and just look at the man.

‘I expressly ordered Barbara Hanson to stop harassing this particular journalist. And you know that.’

‘She wasn’t harassing anyone,’ Torstensson countered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘She wrote about a public figure, and celebrities just have to deal with that sort of thing.’

‘There are limits, though,’ Schyman said. ‘And Barbara passed them quite a long time ago.’

‘I don’t agree,’ the editor-in-chief said.

Anders Schyman was overcome by a sudden wave of intense weariness, the same feeling of draining exhaustion that had hit him several times during the past few days.

I don’t have the strength
, he thought.
I won’t even bother.

‘Barbara Hanson is one of this paper’s most prominent and esteemed reporters,’ Torstensson said. ‘She’s known for her bold and feisty celebrity profiles, they’re a distinctive feature––’

‘Don’t you try to teach me what this paper stands for,’ Schyman interrupted the man, suddenly blazing with rage. ‘Barbara Hanson is a lazy, spoiled and hard-drinking member of the family that owns this paper, and that’s why you let her behave any way she damn well pleases.’

The editor-in-chief gasped. What little blood he had left in his face drained down into his stomach.

‘You can’t be serious,’ he exclaimed.

‘Well, don’t we usually call a spade a spade when it comes to our other associates? You’ve called Hasse over at the sports department the Drunk Driver, and you’ve called Annika Bengtzon the Manslaughterer. Is Barbara Hanson more fragile than the others?’

‘I’m not going to listen to this,’ the editor-in-chief said tightly and spun around to face the door.

Anders Schyman got up.

‘Where are you going? Could you possibly leave a telephone number where we can reach you? You can drop it off at Tore Brand’s desk.’

He studied Torstensson’s stooped back under the thin cotton fabric of his shirt. The man’s spine protruded like a railroad track. His ribcage heaved with every breath as he paused. By the time he finally turned around, his face was convulsed with anger.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘I’m going to spend the night here, with the journalists.’

The managing editor looked into the other man’s eyes, trying to fathom their cloudy depths.

He’s going to fight
, Schyman realized.
He’s not going to let go. Did I really expect anything else?

‘You can go home now,’ Torstensson said as he opened the door.

‘I have some papers to go through,’ Schyman said.

‘You don’t have to do that tonight.’

‘Are you ordering me to leave?’

Schyman sat down heavily, leaned back in his chair with his hands cradling the back of his head and regarded Torstensson without flinching. Without uttering a word, Torstensson closed the door behind him.

Karin Bellhorn kissed Annika’s competitor Bosse on both cheeks, holding his hands in hers, and then nodded to Annika herself.

‘Awful business, this,’ Bosse said.

The TV producer was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was gathered in a loose bun on the top of her head, secured by a purple plastic comb. A cardigan with pockets, a wrinkled blouse, wide slacks in an exotic print.

‘The worst thing of all,’ she said in a low voice, ‘is that it was in the air. These past few days have been terrible.’

‘Could you tell us more?’ Bosse asked and glanced over at Annika.

The producer pulled her purse out in front of her, rummaged around in it, and managed to locate a pair of sunglasses and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She put on the shades and, with the aid of Bosse’s lighter, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply as she looked out over the lake.

‘It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?’ she said, hardly exhaling a trace of smoke. It was as if it had been absorbed by her lung tissue.

Annika and Bosse nodded. It really was a beautiful place. A light breeze had started to blow, making the leaves of the treetops flutter gently so that the sunbeams filtering through the foliage danced. Little reflections skimmed the surface of Lake Långsjön and the sheep bleated.

‘I felt so incredibly sorry for Michelle,’ Karin Bellhorn said slowly, her gaze trained on the opposite shore. ‘She had never been as stressed out as she was during this series.’

‘Have you worked with Michelle for a long time?’ Annika asked, her mouth slightly dry. The TV producer had a personality that commanded respect.

Karin Bellhorn glanced at them over her shoulder. She was holding her cigarette between two fingers next to her mouth and smiled wearily.

‘On and off for four years,’ she replied. ‘I saw a star being born, and dying . . .’

Standing very still, she looked out over the lake again.

‘Being in the public eye does strange things to people,’ she said. ‘It’s like a drug, you get hooked. Once you’ve had a taste of fame, you would do anything to have more.’

‘Not everyone,’ Annika countered. ‘A lot of people choose not to stay in the spotlight.’

Another over-the-shoulder glance accompanied by a sad smile.

‘Not without experiencing withdrawal symptoms,’ the TV producer countered. ‘It takes its toll. Fame is like wounds in your soul – they can heal, but they leave scars. Anyone who’s been there will pick at the scabs – they can’t leave them alone.’

‘Did Michelle have scars like that?’ Bosse asked.

A tear escaped from the outer corner of one eye, and the woman let it roll down her face, past her ear and down her neck, without wiping it away.

‘She was one great big bleeding wound,’ Karin Bellhorn said very quietly. ‘But please don’t write that. Let her keep some shred of dignity.’

Both Annika and Bosse nodded wordlessly.

‘Please tell us what we can write,’ Bosse said.

Karin Bellhorn flicked some ash off her cigarette and sighed deeply.

‘This whole taping session has been a mess, I’ll tell you that. Partially because of the rain, you see. When everyone’s constantly soaked to the skin, they lose their tempers. But there was so much at stake too. The series was a gamble for TV Plus, a lot of money, prestige hung in the balance, and it would have made or broken Michelle’s career at this point.’

‘How did she do?’ Annika asked.

The producer inhaled the final greyish-blue puff of smoke, then stubbed out her cigarette against the sole of her shoe and put the butt in her pocket.

‘She was absolutely fabulous,’ she said quietly, turning towards them and taking her glasses off. ‘Michelle had never been better. The whole show was tailored to suit her personality, she got to show off her entire range and she really pulled it off. If TV Plus decides to air the shows, Michelle’s critics will have to eat crow. She had an enormous range and great expertise as a reporter, and her camera presence was magnificent. I believe she could have gained international fame in time . . .’

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.