Prime Time (15 page)

Lake Långsjön shimmered, its surface surging languidly in the breeze. The leaves, still translucent at this point, rustled and whispered. Satiated sheep with matted wool wandered aimlessly around the area below the parking lot.

Annika closed her eyes, took a few controlled breaths and felt her pulse rate go down. An insect buzzed past her face and her nostrils were filled with the smell of wet soil.

I’ve got to remember to get that rowboat back to the Ansgar
Centre
, she thought.

The first person to leave the South Wing was a neatly dressed and somewhat perplexed-looking middle-aged man. He stopped short when he reached the blue and white police-line tape as if it was meant to block his path, not keep the journalists on the other side at bay.

Annika remained where she was, waiting, and watched the sunlight play over the scene in front of her. She saw the competition’s reporter, pad in hand, ask the man something. He put up a hand to ward the media pack off and kept his gaze fixed on the ground. The national TV team followed him with their camera at a distance, making no effort to approach the man.

After a minute or so, the competition’s reporter backed away and the man continued along the drive. He was in his fifties, a bit stocky, and he was wearing a well-ironed plaid shirt. Annika brushed the dust off the seat of her slacks and, on the opposite side of the wall, followed the man. When he passed the drive he stopped and looked around helplessly. Annika approached him.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘My name is Annika Bengtzon and I work for the paper
Kvällspressen.
Can I help you? Do you need a ride?’

The man’s bewildered expression gave way to a smile.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I need to get home. They’re keeping the bus.’

Annika nodded, thrust her hands in her pockets and looked out over the lake.

‘Did they say for how long?’

‘It might be just until the beginning of next week. I’ve got this assignment in Denmark – I’ve even fixed the permits and everything.’

Excitement got the better of him and he put his suitcase down on the gravel.

‘You know, that bus is almost longer than the legal limit – twenty metres. We need a permit to drive it in certain European countries. We’re not allowed to pass through Denmark – we can only drive there if we have a Danish assignment – so we have to take the ferry to Sassnitz if we’re headed for the Continent.’

Annika smiled and gazed out over the lake.

‘Would you like me to drop you off at the station in Flen? There are trains to Stockholm almost every hour.’

The man’s eyes widened and he picked up his bag.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, warding her off with his hand in a characteristic gesture that seemed to define his personality: restrained and wary. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘No problem,’ Annika said. ‘My car’s right over here.’

Without waiting for the man to protest further, she went back up to the parking lot, jumped in her car and glimpsed the tall, slim form of the reporter for the competition out of the corner of her eye.

‘All right,’ she said, opening the passenger door next to the man. ‘Jump in.’

He obliged and got in the seat next to her, holding his bag on his lap.

‘My friend Anne Snapphane has told me so much about you,’ Annika said.

He blinked in confusion.

‘She has? Anne?’

‘Like how well you take care of the OB and what a dependable guy you are to have on the team. You
are
Gunnar Antonsson, right?’

The man blinked and nodded.

‘I’m the Technical Operations Manager of Outside Broadcast Bus No. Five,’ he said. ‘I’m in charge of the bus.’

Annika looked around and turned out on Route 55.

‘You are one of the people who found her, weren’t you? That must have been awful.’

Gunnar Antonsson blinked a few times and his chin quivered, possibly from holding back tears.

‘Michelle was a nice kid,’ he said. ‘Don’t let anyone tell you anything else.’

‘Would anyone try to?’ Annika asked.

The man sighed deeply and fingered his bag.

‘Journalists always have it in for TV personalities,’ he said. ‘They always zoom in on what’s bad instead of what’s good. I guess the problem is that everybody wants to be on TV.’

‘Except for you, right?’ Annika said, smiling.

He actually laughed.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not for me. Can you imagine me on screen?’

They turned off at Flen and passed the intersection leading to Hälleforsnäs.

‘I took a look at the Stables,’ Annika said. ‘It looked like there had been a fight. Were you there?’

Gunnar Antonsson shook his head.

‘I had to get up at seven, have breakfast, close up the bus and drive to the province of Dalarna. So I went to bed as soon as I’d seen
The Flying Doctors.
’

‘And you didn’t hear anything during the night?’

He shook his head sadly.

‘What did she look like when you found her?’ Annika asked and braked for the one and only stop light in town.

Gunnar Antonsson’s expression became closed and distant.

‘She wasn’t wearing any pants,’ he said, sounding puzzled. ‘No underpants.’

Annika glanced at the man. He met her gaze.

‘Why would she be in the bus without any underwear on?’

Images zipped past in Annika’s mind, like a camera clicking away. She shook her head and pulled over.

‘Here we are. I hope you don’t have to wait too long.’

‘Thanks for the lift,’ Gunnar Antonsson said politely. He shook her hand, smoothed his hair and got out of the car.

Anders Schyman was on his way back from the coffee machine when he heard angry voices coming from the reception desk. He couldn’t make out the words, but there was something about the voice’s intensity and its particular dialect that made him check things out.

Tore Brand stood with his back to him, arms hanging limply at his sides, head protruding like a turtle’s. He was facing a tall, red-faced man who was bristling with rage.

‘Now how would that look,’ the attendant demanded, ‘if I just let people walk in off the streets?’

Schyman put a hand on Tore Brand’s shoulder.

‘It’s all right,’ he said and extended a hand to greet the paper’s chairman of the board.

‘I’m Anders Schyman,’ he said, ‘the managing editor. What can I do for you?’

Tore Brand snorted and returned to his sentry duty behind the desk.

Herman Wennergren pulled out a paper he had been holding under his arm.

‘I would like to speak to Torstensson,’ he said.

The managing editor expressed a concerned sigh.

‘He isn’t in yet.’

‘Then I would like to speak to the executive editor.’

Schyman cocked an eyebrow and said:

‘Well, that would be Torstensson: yesterday, today, and every other day. Would you care to step into my office for a while? Would you like a cup of coffee?’

The chairman of the board ignored the last question.

‘You have a great deal of explaining to do,’ he said as he held out the most prestigious spread of the paper, pages six and seven. It featured Annika Bengtzon’s balancing act about the twelve witnesses at the castle.

‘My office,’ Schyman repeated, this time in the same authoritative tones he used with members of his staff when they made a fuss in public.

The floor rocked a bit under the managing editor’s feet as they headed towards his glassed-in corner office. As far as he knew, Herman Wennergren had never set foot in the newsroom before.

‘Now, what can I do for you?’ Anders Schyman asked as he indicated a chair. The chairman of the board remained on his feet.

‘Where the hell do you get off, calling my son a murderer? In our own paper, too?’

Schyman took a deep breath. He had his explanations ready: how Carl Wennergren was not, in fact, indicated in any way as being a murderer – rather, he was described as a hero – and that there was a difference between the words ‘witness’ and ‘suspect’. Only suddenly something clicked. A thought materialized, crystal clear and brilliantly refined. It appeared out of the blue, but was actually the product of months and years of frustration. Then all the reasons not to go for it assaulted him: the moral implications, the risks involved, the possible consequences. Schyman drew another breath and brushed away these doubts.

‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘I wish I could give you a good explanation. But decisions of this nature, such as those pertaining to the publishing of names and pictures of suspects in a crime or people with a criminal record, are the sole domain of the executive editor.’

‘How dare you
do
such a thing?’ Herman Wennergren roared, angrily pacing the confined office space. ‘Portraying my son as a suspect, and his fiancée too! Carl and Mariana are upstanding young people – we could sue you for this. And where did you find that old picture of Carl? He looks like a gangster!’

Schyman slowly lowered himself onto his chair.

‘The picture is Carl’s byline shot. He selected it himself. With regard to publication issues, I’m afraid I must direct you elsewhere.’

The chairman of the board, accustomed as he was to being in charge, didn’t give up that easily.

‘What about the rest of you, like this Annika Bengtzon – what kind of person is she? How can she write garbage like this?’

‘Our reporters are our foot soldiers,’ Anders Schyman replied. ‘They keep their ears to the ground and tell us what they hear. They don’t decide what will be published. Only the executive editor can do that. But I do agree that the article in question constitutes a balancing act. It would have been appropriate if the executive editor had discussed it with us.’

‘You mean he hasn’t done that?’

‘Not with myself nor with the reporter.’

‘Get that bastard on the phone. Now.’

Schyman got up, picked up the phone and dialled the editor-in-chief’s cellphone number. For the first time during the Midsummer holidays the call went through. Torstensson picked up after three signals.

‘I’m glad I could reach you, Torstensson,’ Schyman said as he caught Herman Wennergren’s glare and pointed at the receiver. ‘There’s something we need to discuss. What do you think of today’s paper?’

In the background Schyman could hear the sound of plates and utensils in use, conversations interspersed with laughter, and the distant strains of accordion music.

‘I haven’t read it yet,’ Torstensson said. ‘Was there anything in particular?’

‘I see,’ Schyman said, holding Herman Wennergren’s gaze. ‘All right … We’ve had a few reactions to the first news spread on pages six and seven. The pictures of the witnesses at the castle.’

‘What witnesses?’

The man sounded uninterested. He seemed to be concentrating on a conversation taking place at his end.

‘Journalistic decisions of this nature are always open for discussion,’ Schyman continued in a deliberate voice and turned to survey the newsroom through his glass partition. ‘It might be prudent to evaluate the situation.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Torstensson demanded, talking directly into the phone now.

Schyman paused, nodded silently and then shook his head.

‘I don’t agree,’ he said. ‘I think this issue is a relevant and timely one to discuss.’

Tortensson’s confusion was giving way to rage.

‘What the hell are you up to?’ he demanded.

Schyman heard the scraping of a chair and the sounds of dining receded.

‘I think we should pursue the matter,’ the managing editor continued. ‘But reflection and deliberation are certainly never counter-productive to ambition and determination.’

Schyman turned around and shot a glance at Herman Wennergren, who nodded in agreement.

‘Are you putting me on?’

By now the editor-in-chief was enraged. The restaurant sounds were gone, replaced by the humming of the outdoors wind.

‘Absolutely not,’ Schyman said. ‘Not at all. But, you see, Herman Wennergren happens to be here, and he would like to share his views on the journalistic ethics exercised in today’s paper. Would you like to talk to him?’

‘Me? Right now?’

‘Yes, I thought you would. I’ll put him on.’

Schyman handed over the phone, his heart racing at a controlled pace. He noticed from the brief contact that Wennergren’s hand was hot and moist.

‘I never thought I’d read such a thing in my own paper,’ Herman Wennergren said. ‘It’s an outrage, that’s what it is! An outrage!’

Schyman swallowed, pricked up his ears and tried to refrain from staring. He couldn’t make out the editor-in-chief’s response.

‘Carl!’ the chairman of the board shouted, his face bright red. ‘You’ve insinuated that my son is a murderer in today’s paper. How dare you?’

Silence. A vein at the chairman’s temple throbbed.

‘What else would I be referring to, goddam it?!’ he bellowed.

Schyman studied the dust on the panes of glass.

‘Well, are you the executive editor or aren’t you?’

The chairman of the board picked up the paper and started leafing through it.

‘At this very moment I’m looking at the executive byline. Are you telling me that you don’t take your responsibilities seriously?’

Schyman turned away, shut his eyes and began to breathe through his mouth.
It’s all or nothing
, he thought.

There was a drawn-out silence. When the chairman spoke, his voice was calmer.

‘Good. Of course. I’m looking forward to that.’

He hung up with a bang. Schyman turned around. Herman Wennergren’s face was dark with rage.

‘Is this some sort of conspiracy directed at the editor-in-chief?’ he asked.

Schyman sighed, sat down at his desk again, then leaned back and relaxed.

‘I wish it was as simple as that,’ he said, folding his hands and placing them behind his neck. ‘A plot would require an adversary with a pronounced set of values, an attitude to oppose. And that’s not the case here at our paper.’

The chairman of the board blinked in confusion.

‘What do you mean?’

Schyman leaned forward and fixed Herman Wennergren with his gaze.

‘Torstensson is bringing this paper down. He doesn’t have the faintest idea of what he’s doing. The rest of us save his tail daily. He’s a disaster as an editor-in-chief.’