Lifetime (41 page)

Schyman continued to leaf through the paper and got caught up in Annika Bengtzon’s piece about the neo-Nazi girl in Katrineholm living in a dismal basement. His restlessness was submerged for a while as he drank in the description of the young woman, her past and her views. He was transported to that fateful night at the castle and saw the shadows dance.

Afterwards he blinked a few times before landing back in his own chair again.

Good story, well written too; it had depth and perspective. It was sheer perfection.

Then there was a review of the investigation, based on information from the police, a professor of criminology and one of the country’s most famous defence lawyers.

Schyman learned that investigations of this kind generally consisted of a puzzle with two ingredients: the testimonies of the witnesses and forensic evidence. In this particular case, the different testimonies were contradictory and inconclusive, possibly due to the fact that the witnesses had been inebriated or overworked, or because they hoped to protect themselves from some consequence that had nothing to do with the murder. However, it appeared to be more and more certain that the assailant had been one of the twelve people who had spent the night at the castle. The police were confident that the solution could be found among the material they had obtained, but as yet there had been no arrests.

The professor of criminology assured the public that the reason why the police were not very forthcoming with information was because they were hard at work. Time was always a major adversary in cases like this, which was why the police focused all their resources on the investigation. The defence lawyer explained the importance of thorough investigation prior to any arrest. Unless there was a confession, the indictment would be based on a chain of circumstantial evidence that would have to be supported by forensic evidence.

The managing editor sighed. There was something about the slight vagueness of the wording that made him suspect that the solution to this crime was further off than anyone would like to admit.

The next spread was dominated by the pharmaceuticals story. It was ambitiously conceived, with explicit diagrams and a great case study of a young mother who had died after taking over-the-counter pain relievers. The headline was an eye-catcher:
Lethal Relief.
It was almost like a jingle. Schyman smiled and didn’t notice Torstensson until he knocked on the glass door.

‘The TV team is here,’ the editor-in-chief said, his eyes a bit bleary this early in the morning.

Anders Schyman forced himself to don his most neutral expression as he looked up from the paper.

‘So soon? I thought they were coming in at eight?’

Torstensson rubbed his clean-shaven chin and straightened his tie.

‘They’re setting up cameras in my office.’

‘Have they mentioned what this is all about?’

The editor-in-chief rocked on his heels impatiently.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘And I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible. I’m on vacation.’

‘You’re the one they wanted to interview,’ Schyman pointed out, aware that he was stirring things up. ‘Why do they want me to be present?’

‘If this has anything to do with journalistic ethics, I’m not going to cover for your mistakes,’ Torstensson said curtly. ‘You’ll have to field any questions about them yourself.’

Then he turned and walked across the newsroom, his overly padded shoulders bobbing like floats on a lake.

This isn’t about journalistic ethics
, Anders Schyman thought as he rubbed his forehead, pushed in his chair and looked around.

He walked out, leaving the door to his office open.

Thomas held on to the door frame. The entire kitchen felt like it was pitching.

‘Is there any coffee?’

‘In the pot,’ Annika replied in a neutral tone of voice without looking up from the morning paper. She was holding a spoon in one hand and a napkin in the other and was sitting between the children. Kalle was eating a cheese sandwich and Ellen was covered with yogurt.

Suddenly Annika realized that she was always up by the time Thomas walked in for breakfast, that the kids were dressed and fed, the coffee was ready and the papers were spread out on the table.

Thomas staggered over to the cupboard and pulled out a mug, noticing that his hand was shaking.

He wasn’t used to drinking alcohol on week nights.

‘When did you get in last night?’ she asked, still not looking at him.

‘Late,’ he said as he poured himself some coffee.

‘Where did you go?’

She looked up and her eyes were filled with anger, disappointment and sadness.

He licked off a used spoon and stirred his beverage.

‘I went to a pub not far from here.’

She nodded and looked back down at her paper.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ she asked, indicating the chair on the opposite side of the table with her gaze.

‘Mommy, I’m done,’ Kalle piped up to her right.

Ellen pushed away the spoon on her left.

‘All righty,’ Annika said. ‘Now go and wash your face and brush your teeth.’

With an efficiency born of habit, she lifted Ellen out of the high chair, wiped the baby’s sticky hands and face and sat her down on the floor beside her. Ellen scooted after her brother using the special crawling style she’d developed, with one foot under her.

‘She’ll be walking soon,’ Thomas said in a doting daddy’s voice as he sat down.

The morning light illuminated the woman sitting across the table, his woman, the ruthless rays revealing how tired she was.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated as he covered her hand with his.

She let his hand remain there, but she avoided his pleading gaze.

‘You scared me the other night,’ Annika said.

Thomas looked down at the table without making any comment.

‘It wasn’t only what you said,’ she continued. ‘It was my own reaction too. I keep running in circles, I’ve behaved the same way when I’m with you as I did with Sven . . .’

‘Stop it!’ he demanded. ‘Don’t compare me to him.’

‘I have to,’ Annika said, looking up, both her gaze and her voice steady. ‘Not because the two of you are alike, but because
I
haven’t changed. I still act the same way, I haven’t learned a damn thing. I’ve grovelled, I’ve danced attendance on you, and I’ve tried to make amends. It’s not your mother’s fault that she can’t accept me. I’m the one who’s felt sorry for you for choosing me. I don’t approve of myself.’

She took a sip of her orange juice. Her hand was shaking.

‘But that’s over now,’ she said. ‘Either you choose me for real, or we forget the whole thing.’

Thomas slumped, looking at her in shocked surprise.

‘What do you mean? What did you have in mind?’

‘We’ll get married,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a church wedding with all the trimmings, invite every last relative, all the friends we ever had, and rent a big hall, book a cover band and dance until dawn. A real wedding and a big picture in
Katrineholms-Kuriren.
’

He sat up straight, then leaned back and rolled his eyes.

‘You’re hung up on the petty details,’ he said. ‘The major issue isn’t the church or the party.’

Annika looked out of the window and studied the courtyard with its bicycle stand and its garbage cans.

‘In any case, that’s the way things stand,’ she said.

She pulled her hand away from his.

‘Hello? Alide?’

Bambi listened to the fuzzy connection, sensing someone on the other end who seemed much further away than they actually were. A faint moaning sound emerged from the static that didn’t bode well.

‘Alide, how are you? Were you asleep?’

Something that might have been a sob floated west across the Baltic Sea, following the Latvian coast, passing Ösel, crossing to Gotska Sandön, landing in Sweden on the tiny distant island of Landsort and travelling along the telephone lines all the way to Solna.

‘No,’ the Latvian woman said. ‘I was awake.’

Bambi Rosenberg sighed in relief. It sounded like Alide was sober. Possibly hung-over, but still in the possession of her faculties.

‘Everything’s been taken care of,’ she said. ‘I saw the lawyers yesterday, and we went through all the papers and things like that.’

The woman didn’t make any comment and Bambi thought she could detect the sound of crying in the silence. She sank down on the dresser in the hallway, and looked up at the ceiling to keep her own tears in check.

‘Don’t be sad,’ she said in a choked-up voice. ‘Listen to me, Alide, we’ve got to be strong now.’

‘I miss her,’ the woman said in her heavily accented English. ‘I’ve missed her all my life, and now it’s too late.’

Bambi closed her eyes and surrendered, letting the tears course down her cheeks.

‘I know,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Michelle missed you, too. But she did forgive you, Alide, she did. You know that.’

A deep sigh came over the phone, one that might even have held a trace of relief. Bambi stared at the dark wallpaper, content with her half-truth. Michelle had forgiven her mother, but she had never been able to deal with the sorrow caused by her deceit.

‘What do the police say? Have they arrested anyone?’

Bambi Rosenberg shook her head at the wall.

‘No. I don’t know what’s taking them so long.’

‘Have you heard anything about the funeral?’

‘No date has been set yet. It will take a few more weeks. The network is conducting a memorial service today – I’ll tape it so that you can watch it when you get here.’

‘I don’t want to stay at Michelle’s place,’ the woman said in a whisper that was barely audible over the buzz of the connection.

The actress wiped her face with the back of her left hand.

‘You can stay here,’ she said. ‘You know that. Just tell me when you’ll be arriving and I’ll pick you up at the boat terminal.’

They shared a silent moment of bonding across the sea.

‘Do you know what’s going to happen?’ Michelle Carlsson’s mother asked after a while. ‘With the allowance, I mean?’

‘You won’t be needing one,’ Bambi replied. ‘She didn’t have a will. You inherit everything. The apartment, the business and all the rights, the furniture and the jewellery. You’re her sole heir.’

Alide’s voice was very weary as she said:

‘Michelle wouldn’t have liked that,’ she said. ‘I don’t deserve it.’

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ Bambi said, selecting the appropriate reassuring tone of voice from her repertoire. ‘Michelle wanted you to be all right, you know that. She wouldn’t have sent you that allowance if she didn’t. She wanted you to be comfortable. The only reason she doled money out to you like that was so that you wouldn’t blow it all at once. You know how things used to be . . .’

‘You should have some of it,’ Alide Carlsson declared.

Bambi Rosenberg’s face flushed and she was glad no one could see her.

‘I haven’t paid back the loan for my breast implants yet,’ she said. ‘I have no claim on her estate.’

‘You took care of the things I should have done,’ Michelle’s mother said. ‘I’m going to make sure you get what’s coming to you. Trust me.’

Her words conjured up a dizzying sense of déjà vu, making Bambi Rosenberg start to cry again.

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. She had heard those kinds of promise before and knew that she would be let down. ‘You’re not my mother, Alide, you don’t have to do anything for me. But call me when you get here and we’ll get together.’

After she had hung up, Bambi Rosenberg sank to the floor, curled up in the foetal position and fell asleep.

Mehmed had seated Torstensson on his executive chair with the painting by Anders Zorn in the background. Schyman stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene, trying to figure out the layout by studying the equipment. He unobtrusively observed the people at work, busy with cords, cables, headsets, microphones, and sheets of paper for balancing whiteness. Two cameramen, a sound engineer and the host; a fair-sized operation.

One camera was stationary and focused on the editor-in-chief while the other was mobile and would follow Mehmed. This meant that they expected Torstensson to sit still while Mehmed would be able to move around. Okay.

The editor-in-chief was already sweating under the spotlights. They weren’t really necessary, but their hot glare could certainly come in handy when you were putting someone on the spot – so to speak. Torstensson fidgeted a great deal, running his hands through his hair, bumping up against the body mike he was wearing on the lapel of his jacket and clearing his throat.

Schyman understood more or less what would take place. Mehmed’s problem would be to get Torstensson to admit to selling his holdings on 19 July, the day before the disastrous second-quarter report was made public. This meant that he would probably focus on something else at first, something he already knew, such as when Torstensson was made privy to this confidential information, and in what circumstances. The date of the transaction would be obvious, and if the editor-in-chief didn’t stay on his toes, he would get all tangled up in a web of excuses.

‘When it comes to journalistic ethics, I’m not the only . . .’ Torstensson started to say, but no one took any notice of him.

Anders Schyman saw that the technical end was complete. He shut the door and stood next to one of the cameramen.

‘All right,’ Mehmed Izol said. ‘Shall we get moving?’

The host sat on a chair in the middle of the room, about a metre away from the subject of his interview, crossed his legs, and let his hands rest calmly in his lap.

A thought flashed through Schyman’s mind:
He is so good.

‘Editor-in-chief Torstensson,’ Mehmed began. ‘Could you please tell me the stance you take at
Kvällspressen
on economic crime?’

Torstensson settled back in his chair and cleared his throat. On a small monitor by the cameraman’s feet, Schyman saw how the ample nude in the Zorn painting floated right above the editor-in-chief’s left ear.

‘Crime is a blot on society in every democracy,’ Torstensson replied. ‘One of the most important obligations of the press is to investigate criminals at all levels of society and expose them.’