Lifetime (24 page)

Schyman scanned the figures, his attention drawn to the lower right-hand corner and the section for New Media. This article had been published back in ‘The Good Old Days’, when the future held salvation and the possibilities were endless. The family’s proud flagship on the seas of the Digital Age was called Global Future, their Internet company for digital-technology ventures, a team of consultants that would do business with the Market and build the Future. The newspaper
Kvällspressen
was a little blue brick in the Global Future pedigree as well. Somewhere, sometime, their cutting-edge website would be constructed, the site that would win the war in cyberspace and bring
Kvällspressen
into Tomorrowland. It never happened. The paper was still stuck with a hopeless site – a few news flashes and TV guide selections – while their competitor had created the most prestigious portal in Europe.

Schyman sighed loudly, weariness pounding through his system. He leaned back, rubbed his eyes, and fitted the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind.

Most of the family’s businesses were public companies, as was Global Futures, and the IPO had been a very costly affair, along with being a bit premature. The family had wanted to ride on the Tech Wave, float in the bubble that brought the stock markets of the world to unrivalled heights, and what was wrong with that? The market spoke and made decisions regardless of whoever was listening. At first, the venture was successful. Global Future was a major comet on the Stockholm Exchange in those days. The CEO was an enterprising young man who had political ties to the Party. He drew up the guidelines for the future, made numerous TV appearances, participated in seminars, and held lectures on the subject ‘The Promise of the Future’, exploring what life would be like when broadband technology was fully implemented and the virtual household was a reality.

However, the company never actually made a profit. Still, the high market value was a part of the Future and the return on this venture would be so great for so many in the long run. In contrast to other venture capital-based companies, such as boo.com and Framfab, the parent company would assure Global Future’s stability.

Torstensson had been wild about it. He had waxed lyrical on the subject of ‘The Future’ and he had promoted several series of articles about the Promise of the Future that had helped inflate the value of the Internet companies, including Global Future. The generous options provided by his contract allowed Torstensson to be in on the market from the very beginning, and he had bought substantial shares in the company. This was something Schyman had deemed inappropriate in itself, but the Internet department of the paper was to be created and maintained by Global Future, which let Torstensson off the hook. Who could blame an editor-in-chief for believing in his own project?

During the heyday of the Tech Bubble and the raging bull market, Torstensson occasionally revealed how much money he had made by going in on Global Future from the beginning. Schyman estimated that he had made roughly five million kronor, chicken feed in those days but a huge fortune for ordinary people.

He picked up the minutes dated 27 June of last year, fingering one of the dog-eared corners. He had read this many times, pondering on its significance. It was a summary of the meeting held right before summer when the chairman had informed Torstensson that Global Future would no longer be contributing to the paper’s digital project. From now on each individual newspaper and periodical within the group would be financially accountable for their own ventures into new media. A serious profit warning was expected in the financial report for Global Future’s second quarter that would soon be made public.

Schyman dropped the minutes and picked up the press release dated 20 July.

In stark contrast to previous financial forecasts, Global Future was still not generating a profit. In fact, the company was doing worse than ever, its losses far exceeding those in the preceding quarterly reports. In itself, this shouldn’t have alarmed the market – if it hadn’t been for the fine print.

The biggest difference in the race between Global Future and the companies with venture capital backing was that the parent company had agreed to allocate funds to the company, as long as – and this was the clincher – the company showed a profit during the now-impending third quarter. Everyone who had done their homework realized the impact of this clause, and unloaded their shares, causing the price to drop 28 per cent on Thursday, 20 July of last year. It went from a peak rate of 412.50 kronor to 297 kronor, and this was only the beginning.

Three months later the parent company announced that they would no longer be able to supply Global Future with any more money, since the company was deeply in the red. During the autumn, the stock price dipped to practically rock bottom, landing at 59 kronor at the beginning of the new year.

This dramatic scenario paralleled that of the other Internet companies. Some companies’ valuations had been in the range of one thousand kronor a share. After the bubble burst they might only be worth a mere fraction of a krona, eighty öre. It wasn’t the decline as such that was so remarkable, it was the transaction described in another clipping from
Veckans Affärer
that presented a problem.

Or, possibly, a solution, Anders Schyman thought as his gaze lingered on the date: 27 February of this year. He browsed through the long columns, the list of influential people and the stocks they owned.

There he was: Torstensson, editor-in-chief,
Kvällspressen
, owner of the following: No shares.

He had sold them all.

This was an excerpt from the most recent yearbook of the Securities Register Centre. At some point before the end of the year, Torstensson had unloaded something like ten thousand Global Future shares.

The only question was when.

Schyman’s investigation had progressed to such an extent that he knew that the transaction had not been reported to the Financial Supervisory Board. On the other hand, there was no reason why it had to be registered there. Torstensson was not obliged to report his transactions.

Still, the thought nagged at the managing editor.

Had Torstensson sold his stocks too early?

The issue had bothered him for quite a while, but Schyman hadn’t been able to pursue it any further. Going to the Securities Register Centre would mean having to show some ID, and this information would be recorded on their log. It would leave a trace that would be easy to figure out and to follow. Someone else would have to do the digging, a reporter used to going through files.

Resolutely, he gathered the documents, counted them, put them in the folder and then replaced them in the bottom drawer. He locked the drawer and checked that it was locked.

Then Schyman leaned back in his chair and studied the newsroom team through the glass partition, rocking gently, much more at ease now than he’d been all day.

I don’t have to decide just yet.

SUNDAY, 24 JUNE

D
ear readers, get nice and comfy now, ’cause do I ever have a story for you! This was absolutely the worst Midsummer Eve ever – just imagine getting all dressed up in your best summer dress and sandals to take part in a grand show, and then what happens? You get to see the show being taped and it, pardon the expression, stinks. Our little scatterbrain was all over the place, pretending to conduct interviews, and when it’s finally over and you sigh with relief, and have a little champagne to celebrate that you’re still alive, that’s when all hell breaks loose! I’ve never been party to such machinations in all my life – it was impossible to get any sleep and people were shouting up a storm, but I swear I didn’t hear a gunshot . . .

That’s right, my dear readers, I was caught in the midst of what the hyenas here at the paper refer to as the Midsummer Murder. Michelle Carlsson was shot in a car that was parked under my bedroom window, imagine that. Not that I know what she was doing in that car anyway, maybe she was planning to leave – even though she had no business driving, considering the amounts I saw her drink that evening. But then again, maybe she couldn’t sleep either, seeing as the pillows and the mattresses at the castle were exceedingly uncomfortable . . .

‘What the hell is this?’ Anne Snapphane demanded, letting the newspaper drop on the duvet in a crumpled heap.

Mehmed peeled off his jeans and underwear and got back into bed with her again.

‘Schyman’s certainly got something to sink his teeth into today,’ he said as he flicked his tongue over one of Anne’s nipples. She swatted him lightly on the head and picked up the paper again.

‘This shows a monumental lack of judgement,’ she said. ‘It’s absolutely disgusting. How can they let that bitch get away with crap like this?’

‘Yeah, it doesn’t make sense,’ the man agreed, his head resting on her chest.

‘Seriously,’ Anne went on, ‘isn’t this defamation of the deceased, or something like that?’

‘It’s hard to get a conviction on counts like that,’ Mehmed said, lifting his head and looking into her eyes.

She stroked his hair, so black and shiny, and traced his stubbly jaw with one finger, triggering the familiar wave of desire.

‘Why is that?’

He let her finger slip into his mouth and mumbled:

‘The chapter on defamation and libel, item four. “Involving an action which is offensive to the family of the deceased or constituting, with regard to how long ago the individual in question was alive along with other circumstances, a breach of the peace accorded to deceased personages.” She didn’t have any relatives, did she?’

‘Her mother, the Latvian hooker,’ Anne Snapphane whispered and shifted under him. Effortlessly he slipped inside her. They lay there without moving, drinking in each other’s breath, exchanging gazes that made them both giddy.

‘Oh, Lord,’ she moaned quietly, leaning back and closing her eyes, his weight covering her everywhere at once. She took him in, hard and silky.

‘Mommy? Look!’

Their barely perceptible movements, motions that they were hardly aware of making, came to an immediate halt. Anne noticed the pungent aroma of newsprint as she opened her eyes and stared into Annika Bengtzon’s picture byline.

‘What’s the matter, honey?’ she asked, pushing away the paper and lifting her head from the bed.

‘Read book,’ her two-year-old demanded, putting the story of Max and his potty on her dad’s back.

Mehmed let his head drop and nuzzled into her neck. His heated breathing drifted down under the sheets, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end.

‘Not right now – Mommy and Daddy are resting.’

‘It’s all right,’ Mehmed said softly, close to her ear. ‘She’s been asking for you all week. We’ll continue this later.’

Anne stroked his broad back and swallowed.

‘Have you had breakfast, sweetie? Did Daddy make you a sandwich?’

‘Daddy sammich,’ the girl confirmed and climbed up on the double bed.’

Mehmed slipped out of Anne, leaving a monumental void, followed by warmth and indolent desire.

‘Miranda,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘Miranda Izol, come and kiss Mommy.’

The girl, with her dark curls and dark eyes, snuggled up to her mother like a freezing kitten to a radiator.

‘Mommy,’ she said. ‘Mommy.’

Anne threw her arms around the child and gently rocked her.

‘Has Mommy been gone for a long time?’

The girl nodded.

‘But you’ve had a good time with Daddy, haven’t you?’

Another nod.

‘Want to hide under the covers?’

Anne Snapphane pulled the covers over her daughter and herself. In the darkness, the air was close with the scent of their bodies. She felt the mattress sway as the springs were released on Mehmed’s side of the bed and heard his bare feet pad off towards the door.

‘Coffee?’

‘Love some,’ she replied, her voice throaty.

‘Go home?’

Anne looked at the contours of the curled-up toddler and stroked the little head that had immediately got sweaty.

‘We
are
home. At Daddy’s house.’

The girl snuggled closer and wound her hand in her mother’s hair.

‘You’re going to spend the day with Daddy today. Mommy has to work, but then you and I are going home to Lidingö. Would you like that? To go home to your dolly carriage?’

The girl waved her arms around to let in some air and Anne Snapphane kicked off the covers. The bedroom air hit her like a cold draught, damp and piercing. She shivered.

‘Schyman has been trying to get in touch with me on the cell,’ Mehmed said as he brought the coffee in and set it on her night-stand: milk, no sugar.

The girl jumped off the bed and Anne propped herself up in bed and leaned back against the pillows again.

‘What did he want?’

She picked up the cup and warmed her hands on the china.

Mehmed sat down and caressed her calf.

‘He wanted to know how long our team worked during the summer season.’

‘Why?’

‘Beats me, he just left a message. Was the coffee good?’

She smiled at him over the rim of her cup.

‘You wouldn’t happen to know if something’s up at the paper, would you?’ he asked.

‘If there was,’ Anne said, ‘why would Schyman tell you?’

Mehmed Izol, host and producer of the most prestigious in-depth news programme at Sweden’s public service network, ran his hand up her thigh.

Berit Hamrin slapped the paper down on Annika’s desk. She was out of breath and her face was blotchy.

‘Have you read Barbara’s column?’

Annika stuffed the last morsels of a jam doughnut dusted with sugar in her mouth and licked her fingers before she picked up the paper.

That’s right, my dear readers, I was caught in the midst of what the hyenas here at the paper refer to as the Midsummer Murder.

‘What the hell . . .?’ Annika exclaimed and swallowed the greasy treat. ‘Who okayed this?’

‘That’s exactly what I was wondering,’ Berit said, perching on Annika’s desk, still wearing her raingear. ‘Something’s up. Why else would Torstensson be here all night?’