Lifetime (42 page)

Oh, really?
Schyman thought.
And here I thought that’s what the police are supposed to do.

He folded his arms across his chest and forced his pulse to calm down. If anyone could pull this off, it would be Mehmed.

The wall of bags in Anne’s editing room had possibly shrunk a smidgen.

‘Come on in and listen to what I found,’ Anne Snapphane said on the other side of the wall.

Annika walked around the plastic bags, silent and somewhat apprehensive. Worry made her feel weak and shaky.

‘At first I thought it was just some old junk, since there aren’t any pictures,’ Anne explained as she turned up the volume.

‘Now, listen to this.’

Annika stood behind her friend and breathed in the electronically desiccated air, the dust making her sneeze. Then she listened to a tape played on an ordinary VHS player at Anne’s feet. There was a lot of static and background noise, but somewhere in there you could hear panting and moaning.

‘What’s this?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Anne Snapphane replied, rooting around in the depths of a plastic bag standing next to her.

‘Is it only a sound recording?’ Annika asked.

‘Yup. I’ve been listening to it for about fifteen minutes. Sounds like people screwing.’

Anne Snapphane sat up again, her face red from the exertion of bending over, and held up a bunch of tapes.

‘It seems to belong to the
Summer Frolic at the Castle
sessions, probably from the last night.’

She put in a new tape on one of the other machines, one of the beta players. The monitor in front of her flickered and then displayed the rain-drenched exterior of Yxtaholm. The lovemaking soundtrack was rolling in the background while cameras were balancing whiteness and sound was being tested on the beta.

‘Listen,’ Annika said. ‘There’s something I’ve got to ask you.’

‘What?’ Anne said as she set the beta on fast-forward.

Annika swallowed and looked down on the back of her friend’s head, her tousled hair.

‘Is it true that Michelle made sure you got the wrong time for that screen test a while back?’

Anne Snapphane’s back went rigid and her shoulders hunched up. She turned around and stared at Annika, gaping.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Is it true?
Did
she sabotage your audition?’

For a few seconds, Anne just stared at her. Then she turned abruptly and put a new tape in the beta player. The moans and groans continued to roll at her feet.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Karin Bellhorn claims that’s what happened. I have no idea why she would lie about something like that.’

Anne lowered the slip she was holding and stared out over the plastic bags.

‘On the other hand, I don’t know why she never told me this before.’

She looked over her shoulder at Annika.

‘So I really don’t know,’ she said. ‘Why are you asking me this?’

The question hovered over their heads.

‘Is it true that you . . . threatened to strangle Michelle when you heard what she’d done?’ Annika asked, her voice brittle.

Anne’s own voice was wary as she challenged her friend.

‘Right, so you’re wondering if I killed her?’

She turned around again and calmly met Annika’s gaze.

Annika swallowed audibly.

‘No, that’s not it, it’s just that you didn’t tell me this yourself. It felt weird hearing about it from someone else, that’s all.’

Anne looked down at her hands.

‘You see, I’d forgotten all about it at first,’ she said. ‘Then, later on, I guess I felt ashamed.’

She looked up at Annika again.

‘Almost every single one of us wanted to kill Michelle at some point during the evening.’

They looked at each other and Annika knew it was the truth. The tense silence between them was filled with the moans from the tape, and both Annika and Anne were startled when the sounds suddenly ceased. There was a whooshing sound as if an unexpected breeze had blown in and a man’s voice filled the room.

‘Did someone come in?’

The faint whooshing continued, accompanied by static.

‘No, no one, come on . . .’

The sounds of sex returned: whispers, laughter, panting and moaning.

‘Have they talked before this?’ Annika asked, surprised.

Anne Snapphane shook her head, looking somewhat paler.

‘Could it be Michelle and John Essex?’ Annika asked.

Anne hesitated and then nodded.

‘At the beginning of the tape there was a lot of intercom chatter – you know, what they say in the control room, like five seconds to go, ready, camera one, cue theme song, start video number two . . . Michelle introduced John, so this is the right evening.’

‘Who recorded this?’

Anne Snapphane’s breath was coming out in puffs and she shook her head.

‘I have no idea. It was in that jumble of reference VHS tapes, but it isn’t something we need for the show.’

The couple on the tape continued to moan and carry on. Annika stood there and listened to the sounds, and after a minute or two Anne put the tape in fast-forward mode, turning the sound into cartoon chatter, speed-fucking. Annika swallowed, her pulse beating hard at the base of her throat.

‘We missed some talk,’ Anne Snapphane said and rewound the tape.

‘How’s it going?’

Karin Bellhorn’s face peered through the stack of bags.

Anne switched off the sex recording. The producer’s eyebrows were raised as if she was standing on tiptoe. The expression in her eyes turned cold when she caught sight of Annika.

‘What are you doing here?’

Annika tried to smile.

‘The memorial service,’ she said. ‘I thought I might . . .’

But Karin Bellhorn had already lost interest in her.

‘Have you located all the material for 101 and 102 yet?’

‘More or less,’ Anne replied, diving back down in the bag again. ‘All the time codes are noted on the tapes I’ve found, and as far as I can see, they’re ready for the rough-cut assembly.’

‘Could you do it?’ the producer asked, her voice roughened by stress and smoking. ‘Could you make an edit-decision list, list the in and out codes, and have it on my desk before you leave today?’

Annika saw Anne grit her teeth.

‘There’s a lot left to––’

‘It doesn’t matter, you can do that next week. You know the schedule, so put together the tapes we need to make a final cut. That’s great.’

Karin Bellhorn turned and left.

‘That bitch!’ Anne hissed as the heavy footfall of the producer faded down the hall. Tears of rage were in her eyes. ‘I’ll be stuck here for the rest of the summer. Well, I can forget about going to any damn memorial service, that’s for sure.’

Annika fidgeted uncomfortably, knowing that she was in the way.

‘Listen,’ she said, picking up her bag. ‘I’ll go and take a walk.’

Anne Snapphane bent down and removed the sex tape.

‘It’s so fucking unfair,’ she said. ‘This company treats me like a lousy . . .’

She wiped away the wetness on her face.

‘Take this,’ she said, handing the tape to Annika. ‘Go and ask Gunnar what it is, who recorded it, and why.’

Annika took the tape, stuffed it into her bag and wriggled past the monitors.

Thomas recognized the footfall approaching on the thick carpet, simultaneously springy and heavy. He yanked out his top desk drawer and tossed some reports on his desk, assessed the distance of the steps and counted down: three seconds, two, one . . .

‘Could you please come to the section supervisor’s office for a minute?’

He looked up, surprised and busy.

The secretary was leaning against the doorway on one hand, a slightly pained expression on her face due to her uncomfortable insoles.

Thomas smiled.

‘Of course.’

He picked up the reports, rearranged two of them, put them in the drawer and locked it. Then he followed the secretary down the corridor, crossing the lobby, passing the coffee lounge and reaching the corner office.

‘Coffee?’ she asked as she opened the door.

‘Yes, please,’ Thomas replied. ‘I’d like some milk in that.’

He swallowed and looked inside.

All five section supervisors were present. So was the head of negotiations and the director. They were all lined up on the other side of the conference table. Thomas’s hangover made his head throb and caused his movements to be somewhat jerky. He walked straight up to the table, pulled out a chair, sat down and leaned back. There was a faint buzzing in his ears. The seven supervisors were wearing inscrutable expressions as they gazed at the table and the ceiling.

Thomas had a crystal-clear flash of insight: he wouldn’t be getting the job. They were going with the woman from the Federation of County Councils.

The head of negotiations, seated at the head of the table, said: ‘Thomas, we would like to start by saying that we are very satisfied with the work that you have done on the welfare project.’

Thomas swallowed and folded his hands in his lap, noticing that they were cold and damp.

‘As you know, we have explored various avenues with regard to regional planning and development in Sweden,’ the head of negotiations continued, glancing quickly around the room. ‘This has become a somewhat sensitive issue for us here at the Association of Local Authorities, since we have always claimed that the issue lacks merit. Our position has always been that there is no need to discuss
regional
development, only
local
development. Now the tide has turned: we need to appear to have had this issue on our agenda the whole time, and this needs to be taken care of quickly. I guess you could say it requires a balancing act.’

Thomas leaned forward, put his folded hands on the table and nodded appreciatively at the secretary as she brought him coffee.

‘That’s right,’ he said, realizing that he wouldn’t be able to drink his coffee anyway because his hands were shaking too badly. ‘I’ve given this matter some thought, and I have a suggestion as to how we can get around the problem.’

The five section supervisors looked at him for the first time since he had taken a seat at the table, surprised and curious expressions on their faces.

‘It’s vital that the Association forges ahead now that this issue has come to the forefront,’ Thomas continued. ‘We haven’t been overly enthusiastic about the initial phases of this project, the allocation of the regional parliament to the province of Skåne, and the merger of several counties into the region of Västra Götaland. But, on the other hand, we have not taken a critical stance either, so we’re still very much in the running, as I see it. However, it is imperative that we clarify our position and display well-defined objectives that will be effective throughout our operations, objectives which are also shored up politically.’

The head of negotiations regarded him expectantly.

‘What did you have in mind?’

They’re asking me
, Thomas realized.
I’ve got the ball and they’re listening.

‘In my opinion, we should take this course of events very seriously,’ Thomas said, leaning back again and letting his hands drop back into his lap. ‘This is not merely a cosmetic issue for the Association, it will become a concrete reality to deal with in the years to come. Regional influence will increase dramatically and we need to adapt to the change in climate. I suggest that we team up with the Federation of County Councils in a joint venture placing regional development at the heart of our efforts – along with the continued development of the local authorities, of course . . .’

His voice gave out, his throat was parched. The silence in the conference room was pregnant and electric.

The head of negotiations cleared his throat.

‘What section should have jurisdiction over this . . . joint venture, in your opinion?’

‘Naturally, it should be the Developmental Section,’ Thomas said. ‘There shouldn’t be any hard and fast boundaries between local and regional development. From this day forward, our policy will be to treat these two routes like Siamese twins; they will be intertwined and mutually supportive.’

Several of the section supervisors nodded – this was the right stuff at the right time.

‘But how will we persuade organizations and authorities to accept this new direction?’ the supervisor in charge of Family Care and Nursing asked.

‘It’s not a new direction,’ Thomas countered quickly. ‘On the contrary, the Association has always promoted the same regional policy, only now we will broadcast it in a much more forceful manner.’

The silence at the table, an atmosphere of expectancy and doubt, made Thomas break out in a sweat.

‘Printed matter,’ he said, raising his voice to the point of hoarseness. ‘A series of informative hardcover publications, a handbook for everyone involved in regional development: history, research, assessments, analyses. Huge open seminars and discussion forums, a series of lectures, financial incentives for locally based developmental models. The Association will be in the forefront, we’ll set the agenda and the others will follow . . .’

‘And would you be prepared to accept such an assignment?’ the head of negotiations asked.

Thomas quietly cleared his throat before answering.

‘It would be the most stimulating task I could conceive of at the moment.’

The section supervisor for the Developmental Section leaned forward, his eyes now gleaming. If this plan were implemented, his department would receive significantly increased resources, not to mention an increase in clout and prestige.

‘It’s an interesting proposal,’ he started to say, but was cut short by the head of negotiations who had turned to speak to Thomas again.

‘What are your personal circumstances? You have a family, and you live here in town?’

‘I have a wife,’ Thomas said, attempting to smile. ‘We have two children who go to a community day-care centre and we rent an apartment in Kungsholmen. Prior to taking on an assignment here, I spent seven years working for the city of Vaxholm, a city that was a forerunner when it came to privatization and restructuring.’

Not quite able to continue, Thomas’s voice trailed off. He was struck by the feeling of being a whore selling her body from a window in Thailand. Here he was, bragging about living in an apartment, which he detested, and that his kids went to a day-care centre that he wasn’t thrilled about, and topping things off with a reference to the city he had run out on.