Prime Time (35 page)

Annika smiled; white middle-aged heterosexual men with a car and a steady income were a group that had been defined and categorized in debates over the past year, ruffling some feathers. They were used to defining the human condition and being suddenly classified as a distinct group offended them.

‘That’s true,’ Annika said. ‘On the other hand, commercial television shows are only there to fill in the slots between advertisements.’

‘Who cares?’ Karin Bellhorn said. ‘As long as we get the chance to do something that makes sense, we’re going to do it. In addition to this, it creates jobs for women, in front of and behind the camera.’

‘Only the wheels don’t always run smoothly, from what I gather,’ Annika said. ‘Mariana von Berlitz and Michelle didn’t have a good relationship, did they?’

‘It was lousy,’ Karin Bellhorn replied curtly, putting out one cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘Things were damn tense. Mariana was here before Michelle, and she could never accept how Michelle rose to where she did.’

‘So Mariana was envious?’

The producer took a deep breath and looked up at the grimy ceiling for a few seconds.

‘I’d say she begrudged Michelle her glory,’ she said, nodding slowly in acknowledgement of Annika’s words. ‘Mariana insisted on being screen-tested a few times, but she came to the conclusion herself that she didn’t fit the bill. It wasn’t really traumatic for her. What she objected to was that Michelle had so much say in the shows. Since she was the host, Michelle could obviously make changes in the script or ask the producer to rearrange segments. And Mariana felt that Michelle didn’t possess the know-how or the experience to deal with that level of authority.’

‘Was that true?’

Karin Bellhorn greedily inhaled enough nicotine to create a huge hanging ember at the end of her cigarette.

‘No,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Not at all. Michelle was a natural when it came to timing and effect. Mariana is no good at it, she just doesn’t have it in her.’

Annika tried to fan away some cigarette smoke.

‘What about Stefan Axelsson?’

The producer gave Annika a sideways glance.

‘I don’t know much about the guy. He’s a freelancer.’

‘Hasn’t he been involved in most of Zero’s productions during the past four years?’

Karin Bellhorn shrugged and Annika dropped the subject.

‘Then what about Sebastian Follin?’

Karin Bellhorn sank down on an armchair and rested her chin in one hand.

‘Sebastian was doing consultant work for the National Road Administration in Växjö when he dedicated his life to making Michelle Carlsson famous. That’s all he wanted in life: when he succeeded, he was satisfied. Of course, he was an albatross around Michelle’s neck. She had this implicit sense of being indebted to Sebastian. It didn’t matter how much money he got, he was always entitled to something more. He was entitled to
her.
He wanted to share the spotlight with her. Sebastian didn’t see himself as a manager, he saw himself as an extension of Michelle, a part of her.’

‘Is he a little unbalanced?’ Annika asked.

‘Not at all. That’s just my point. Famous people can have that effect on their associates, particularly if you knew the person before they were famous. If a group starts a project together, it’s always going to generate a lot of friction if one person reaches critical mass.’

Confused, Annika blinked.

‘Critical mass?’

The producer smiled again, carefully balancing her cigarette between her lips.

‘When they make a name for themselves,’ she said. ‘Gain recognition and public acclaim. The best examples of this are in the music business – garage bands that have slaved away for years, say, and become so-called overnight sensations and the singer is seen as the star. Bands like that often split up, and that’s due to the mechanisms that control fame.’

Annika smiled.

‘The better known you are, the more powerful you’ll be. And you’ll rule over more space, more territory. Like you said.’

Karin nodded.

‘An imbalance in distribution,’ she said.

‘What other clients did Follin represent?’

The producer took another long drag on her cigarette and waited in silence while the nicotine was being absorbed.

‘There are no others,’ she said as she exhaled the smoke. ‘At first, he pretended there were, but the pretence died out pretty quickly. How frankly should I put this? He had no desire to grow, to expand his business scope. All he wanted to do was show off.’

Annika flushed and changed her tack.

‘What really went on that last night?’ she asked. ‘Why did he go crazy over at the Stables?’

Karin Bellhorn’s eyes flashed. She stubbed out her latest cigarette and got up.

‘What do you know about that?’

Annika hesitated for a second.

‘I saw the mess,’ she explained. ‘Did it have anything to do with Michelle and John Essex?’

The older woman gasped, the colour draining from her face, from her hairline to her chin. She put out one hand against the wall to support herself.

‘What?’ she said. ‘What?’

Alarmed by Karin’s response, Annika took a step towards her.

‘Are you all right? Do you need any help? Would you like me to go and get someone?’

The producer stared at Annika for a few moments. Then she closed her eyes while her complexion slowly regained its flesh-tone.

‘It was just a drop in blood pressure,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

‘I have reason to believe that Michelle and John Essex got it on that last night at the castle,’ Annika said. ‘Could that have made Sebastian Follin jealous?’

Karin shut her eyes and placed a hand on her forehead.

‘I found Sebastian afterwards, in the middle of the mess,’ she said. ‘He was sitting on the floor, bawling his eyes out, absolutely devastated.’

‘Because of John Essex?’

The woman shook her head, sighed, and looked at Annika with glazed eyes.

‘Michelle had told him she was terminating their contract. She didn’t want him to be her manager any more. He couldn’t deal with it – his life fell apart. You’ve got to understand the guy.’

‘Understand him? What do you mean?’

‘He was losing his place in the spotlight, his slice of fame. His territory was being snatched away from him, he was being shut out. Without Michelle, who was he?’

‘Could that really make someone so desperate?’

A harsh, rattling laugh made Karin Bellhorn’s body shake, a reaction so out of control and aggressive that Annika recoiled.

‘You have no idea,’ the producer said, pushing herself off from the wall and leaving the nicotine-reeking gas chamber.

Annika didn’t move, just followed the TV producer with her gaze through the glass partition, breathing in the nauseatingly stuffy air of the room. There was something about the shapeless form of the woman that was echoed in the smoking area: the outdated materials, the lack of freshness.

Stress and shock make people act strangely
, Annika thought.

Then she caught sight of Anne Snapphane over by the coffee-maker.

‘Where did you go?’ Annika asked as she poured the last drops of coffee into a yellow mug embellished with polka dots.

‘Karin wanted to talk.’

Anne sniffed at Annika’s clothes, wrinkling her nose at the cigarette smell.

‘I thought she was going to have a heart attack,’ Annika said, looking apprehensively in the direction of the elevators. ‘Is she always like that?’

‘Yesterday we were all borderline psychotic. You know, I’ve really got to get back to work, this is my week with Miranda and …’

Annika went to pick up her raincoat and her bag, taking her time as she walked to the elevator. As the elevator rattled down the shaft, her mind was chock-full of impressions but still felt strangely empty. Her thoughts were disjointed, a hum of swirling words.

The lobby was crowded, but Berit Hamrin could immediately locate John Essex’s road manager. He was standing in front of the fireplace, rocking back and forth, gently swinging a bottle of French mineral water. His Italian suit was a bit snug at the waist. Armani was designed for athletes, not businessmen.

Berit hurried over to his side. The man chose not to see her.

‘It was nice of you to take the time to see me,’ Berit said, smiling sweetly, reaching out and shaking his hand before he could withdraw it.

The man turned towards her. His expression conveyed unveiled contempt and irritation. He looked her up and down, assessing her middle-aged body and dismissing her as a person.

‘I really don’t see the point of this,’ he said and looked over at the exit, ready to leave.

Berit lifted up her chin a bit, realizing that the manager wanted to shake her self-confidence by rejecting her as a potential sex object.

‘Could we go somewhere and talk in private?’ she asked.

The man didn’t reply. He just sat down on a leather couch next to the fireplace and put the bottle of water on the floor. Berit walked past a group of German businessmen and sat down next to him. She placed a pink cardboard folder in front of them, letting it remain unopened. People swished past at close range, with hushed voices and swinging briefcases.

‘I work for a tabloid that’s in tailspin,’ Berit explained. ‘Our circulation is down, our advertising revenue is down and our resources are drying up, which means that people are leaving the paper and the standard of reporting is deteriorating. Our management is very anxious to turn the tide.’

The road manager was about to get up and leave, totally uninterested in anything to do with a lousy tabloid from the North Pole.

‘That’s why,’ Berit continued in a grave voice, ‘it’s very important that we discuss the situation at hand. I would greatly appreciate dealing with this in a professional manner.’

The man looked at his watch.

‘To be honest, I really don’t see why my assistant insisted that I should see you,’ he said, once again preparing to get up.

Berit forced herself to stay seated and keep her cool.

‘She realized how necessary it was to explore the consequences of the material that my paper has at its disposal.’

The road manager stopped short, his behind hovering some ten centimetres or so above the leather surface of the couch. For the first time he became truly aware of Berit, realizing that she had them by the balls.

Slowly, he lowered himself back down on the couch.

‘Obviously, we don’t wish to harm Mr Essex in any way,’ Berit continued in a sincere voice, cocking her head slightly to one side. ‘On the contrary, all we want is to tell our readers about his impressions of that night at Yxtaholm Castle.’

‘That’s totally out of the question,’ the man said. ‘John is in the middle of a world tour. He doesn’t have time for this kind of thing. We’ve put that unfortunate affair behind us.’

Berit studied the man, noting the age spots on his hands and the tanning-bed shade of the skin beneath his beard, trying to find in herself a smidgen of guilt or shame for what she was about to do. There wasn’t one.

‘That’s too bad,’ she said, ‘because that’s not the case for us, nor for the Swedish police. And as I’ve already informed you, my paper has a duty to keep its readers up to date when it comes to matters of general interest such as this. In addition to this, the owners of the paper demand a return on their investment. We’re not in a position to throw out commercially attractive material just to be nice.’

Distrustful, but now attentive, the road manager blinked a few times.

Berit picked up the pink folder and hefted it in her hand.

‘My paper is in the possession of photos of John Essex with the recently deceased TV personality,’ she said, with a slight wave of the folder.

‘Really?’ the man said.

‘They are pretty sensational,’ Berit said, fixing the man with her stare.

His gaze darted around the room and he leaned closer, not particularly ruffled. His breath smelled of cigars.

‘So we’re talking about sex pictures, then. We can deal with that. It’s no news that John screws around.’

‘That’s only a part of what we’ve got. We also have a copy of the forensic analysis of the murder weapon.’

Fear took hold of the road manager. His posture became rigid and he avoided Berit’s stare.

‘John didn’t shoot her.’

Berit shrugged.

‘That’s possible,’ she said. ‘But he used the loaded gun for other purposes.’

She let her words sink in, seeing the coin drop in the man’s mind.

‘Kinky sex?’ he asked in very hushed tones.

‘About as kinky as you can get,’ Berit replied equally softly.

‘And they’re sure it’s him?’

‘There are fingerprints stuck in the coating of vaginal fluids. On the handle of the gun, the barrel, the trigger …’

The road manager held up his hand to stop her, leaned back against the low backrest of the couch and watched a pair of honeymooners as they passed through the lobby.

‘This isn’t the right place to discuss a matter like this,’ he said quietly.

‘You picked it,’ Berit said, sensing victory in the air.

The rain had stopped, leaving the ground cold and wet. Mud oozed down the asphalt drive leading to the gate.

‘Annika? Annika Bengtzon …’

She had made it to the bus stop outside the television complex when she heard someone calling out to her.

A woman was hurrying down the hill along with the muddy run-off, carefully picking her way and lurching a bit in her high-heeled boots. When she got closer, Annika recognized Bambi Rosenberg, hollow-eyed under her make-up.

‘Boy, am I lucky to catch you,’ the woman said as she staggered up to Annika, out of breath.

‘Is it true that they’re having a memorial service for Michelle over at Zero tomorrow?’

The soap-opera actress was extremely upset. Her lower lip quivered and she had lipstick on her teeth.

‘Yes, as far as I know,’ Annika said, trying to catch the woman’s darting gaze.

‘This is just terrible, terrible! Are they allowed to, just like that? Don’t they need some kind of authorization?’

Something was bothering the young women. She was wringing her hands, smoothing her hair frantically and shuffling her feet.