‘The technical staff left as soon as the bus was packed,’ she said. ‘Gunnar was the only one left. Apart from us.’
‘Could someone else have come, an outsider?’
‘In the middle of the night?’
Turning with an unfathomable expression in her eyes, Karin looked at Anne and shook her head.
‘No,’ Anne whispered. ‘So it was one of us.’
The sound of Anne Snapphane gulping resonated in the room.
‘I agree, so be careful about who you talk to,’ Karin said, ‘and think of what you say.’
Anne nodded, her eyes wide with renewed fear.
‘Did you see anything?’ Karin asked. ‘Anything strange?’
Suspicion dropped like a stage curtain. Anne Snapphane felt doubt take root, felt how it drove a wedge into the foundation of trust. Her emotions were reflected in her eyes, and she felt how she distanced herself and grew watchful.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Did you?’
Karin shook her head and Anne saw her own emotions reflected in the producer’s eyes.
‘I’d better be going,’ Anne said, and got up to leave with a brand-new sorrow in her heart.
They wouldn’t be confiding in each other again.
Editor-in-chief Torstensson didn’t call in. A restless Anders Schyman sat in his glass cubicle at one end of the newsroom and felt irritation well up inside him. There was a pile of documents on his desk: legal action was being taken against Kvällspressen and the executive editor responsible for the publication. The charges ranged from defamation of character to libel.
And the person legally responsible for the publication was Torstensson. As executive editor he had the final say in controversial issues. It didn’t matter what the rest of the newsroom team felt, Torstensson called the shots. After a great deal of pussyfooting around, Schyman had made sure that he, the managing editor, was registered at the Patent and Registration Office as Torstensson’s deputy. This meant that Torstensson could delegate decisions to him, but only if the editor-in-chief expressly wished to do so. Whenever this occurred, the information listed in the corporate heading would be changed. This was simply a cosmetic change, but one that gave Schyman in-house clout. It didn’t happen very often.
Anders Schyman tore his hair. The situation was unpleasant. Michelle Carlsson had caused Kvällspressen a lot of trouble for a long time, and if truth be told, Kvällspressen had caused Michelle Carlsson trouble too. Some of his associates at the paper had decided that the TV personality didn’t cut the mustard, something they delighted in telling their readers. For two years running, she had topped the ‘Worst-dressed women of the year’ list. She had been called ‘The most over-hyped Swede of the millennium’, a ‘TV bimbo’ and other even less flattering names that Schyman couldn’t immediately recall. They jeered at her shows and lampooned her in the culture section of the paper, they gave her scathing reviews in the TV column and poked fun at her when she was given Kvällspressen’s People’s Choice award. Her landslide victory caused the paper to revise the rules for the award. The readers were no longer allowed to vote for anyone they wanted. A jury at the paper, led by Barbara Hanson, nominated four TV personalities that the readers could choose between. The last time around, Anders Schyman had never even heard of two of them.
As long as the criticism and the antics had remained at that level, Michelle Carlsson and her representatives had kept their distance.
She started suing them when the articles about her alleged shell-company dealings were published. As far as Anders Schyman could tell, the paper was going to go down for this.
The second time Michelle sued them was when they published nude photos of her and a man who was claimed to be an escaped convict. Michelle Carlsson was offended by the inference that she would have anything to do with a criminal. And to make matters worse, the paper had got the man’s identity all wrong – he was a Norwegian film star, and he decided to sue the paper as well. The film star was a married man with children and he claimed that the nude pictures had violated his privacy. The paper’s strategy in the two different cases was somewhat schizoid.
With regard to Michelle, they claimed that her companion was clearly identifiable as being the Norwegian film star, which meant there was no reason for her to take offence even if the paper had happened to infer that the man was a criminal.
With regard to the film star, the paper claimed that the photos did not depict the star at all, that the man in question was alleged to be an escaped convict, a criminal, which meant that they could not possibly constitute a violation of the film star’s privacy in any way.
Anders Schyman sighed and rubbed his forehead.
The third court case, which was almost settled, concerned Michelle Carlsson’s mother. A reporter had found the TV star’s lush of a mother at a hotel in Riga where she, with limited success, supported herself as a prostitute.
‘These days there are too many young and good-looking girls in the business,’ the woman complained on the front page of Kvällspressen.
She had also been allowed to beg Michelle to get in touch with her, since she missed her little girl so much and their falling-out had pained her to such an extent that she had succumbed to drink and drugs. Schyman’s cheeks burned with shame when he remembered the headline: ‘Help me, my beloved Michelle!’
The fact that Michelle Carlsson’s mother had abandoned her husband and daughter when the girl was three was never mentioned. The only reason they had been able to reach a settlement at all was because of Michelle’s reluctance to discuss her mother publicly. Naturally, this was an expedient solution for the paper, and one that was cheaper than paying a lawyer for a protracted court case. The reason they hadn’t settled the other cases out of court in a similar way was because Michelle Carlsson had refused to do so, and now it was too late.
The managing editor stacked the summonses. The poor air quality of the room had left him feeling sluggish. He knew he would have to remain at his desk for hours to come. Every single word about Michelle Carlsson destined for tomorrow’s paper would have to be closely reviewed by him. The last thing they needed was another court case, and this time the charge would be the defamation of a deceased person’s character.
The mechanism groaning under his weight, Schyman leaned back in his chair. His wife was celebrating Midsummer with friends out in Vikinghill. He closed his eyes and pictured her there, seated on a patio under an awning, with flowers in her hair, singing and indulging in a schnapps or two.
Why the hell did he take this lousy job?
Because he was tired of superficial pursuits. Frustrated by the limited financial and expressive scope provided by Sweden’s public service television network back when he produced and hosted shows that reviewed society in a critical manner. He was fed up with the celebrity that came with the job. When he accepted the position as managing editor at Kvällspressen, he was shooting for something bigger, something more hands-on, responsible and well conceived. Many times he’d wondered if he’d made the right choice.
The show he had walked out on was doing just fine. Mehmed was a better host than he’d ever been.
Schyman got up and restlessly paced the floor.
Well, he had a fire to put out, so he’d better get down to it.
The rain was driving Annika crazy. Bertil Strand was a regular poster boy for geniality as he sat in the car belonging to the competition, laughing and being amusing. She would never stoop that low just to be warm and dry. Instead, she looked around, searching for some kind of shelter or a roof, her gaze lingering on the greenhouse beyond the parking lot. Did they usually lock those things?
The door didn’t even have a lock. Sliding a glass panel to one side, Annika entered a lush green world. The heat and the smells were so intense that her head began to swim. It struck her that she hadn’t eaten all day. Dizzy and soaked, she sat down on a gravel path between two rows of tomato plants in bloom, leaned back against a big wooden planter and gazed out through
the glass wall. She had a pretty good view of the parking lot and the bridge leading up to the castle.
The words she’d tried to push away all day came back to haunt her. Thomas’s voice, choked with rage:
‘Well, wasn’t this convenient!’ ‘A fine mother you are!’ ‘I’m never going to forgive you for this. Damn you!’
Slowly, she exhaled until every last particle of air had left her lungs.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, but you knew I might have to …’
For a few minutes Annika succumbed to guilt and self-pity. Both emotions struggled to gain the upper hand and left her feeling drained and miserable. Conjuring up the faces of her children, she felt strangely unaffected by the thought of them just then.
She got up, found a tap and drank until her thirst was quenched. Then she browsed through rows of arugula and sugar-snap peas, trying to pick some without leaving any noticeable gaps.
I’ll treat Thomas to dinner here, and I’ll leave a big tip, she promised herself to make up for her pilfering ways.
Somewhat less dizzy now, she returned to her seat by the planter, hesitated a moment and then called Anne Snapphane. Right before the answering service kicked in, her friend picked up.
‘You sound blue,’ Annika said.
‘I wonder why,’ Anne whispered and turned up the volume of a radio in the background.
‘How are you doing?’
Anne Snapphane’s voice was feeble and flat.
‘I’m having a hard time breathing,’ Anne replied. ‘Do you think you can develop asthma overnight?’
Not wanting to encourage her friend’s hypochondriac tendencies, Annika said nothing.
‘It’s so awful,’ Anne went on. ‘I see her in front of me all the time, I feel like I’m to blame.’
‘Well, you can’t possibly––’
‘Don’t you tell me what I can or cannot feel. You’re not the one shut in here like a goddam killer.’
Anne started to sob into the phone and Annika wished she hadn’t called her.
‘Do you want me to hang up?’ she asked gently. ‘Do you want to be left alone?’
‘No!’ Anne whispered back. ‘Please don’t hang up.’
They sat in silence for quite a while, listening to the rattling base tones of the clock radio.
‘Have they told you when you’ll be able to go home?’ Annika asked.
‘No. All they’ve said was that they’ll let us leave as soon as they’ve finished questioning us. By the way, Q is here. He interrogated me. What a mean son of a bitch.’
‘Have you talked to Mehmed?’ Annika asked.
Her friend sighed.
‘No. Could you give him a call and tell him I’ve been detained here? God, I miss Miranda.’
‘I bet she’s doing just fine,’ Annika said in her most soothing voice as she kept watch over the parking lot. ‘Are you allowed to use your cellphone?’
‘Not really. Are you out there somewhere?’
‘It’s pissing down, so I hid in a greenhouse. How about it, do you dare talk to me?’
Annika heard her friend moving around, the sound of her footfalls and how she fiddled with the radio.
‘For a while, I guess.’
‘Could you help me out?’ Annika asked. ‘I’ve been through the cars in the parking lot and think I know who most of your companions are. Could you tell me if I’m right?’
Anne Snapphane gave a tired laugh.
‘Always the journalist. So what do you want to know?’
‘Highlander, is he there?’
‘Roger.’
‘Mariana von Berlitz and Carl Wennergren?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Is Mariana a born-again Christian?’
‘When it suits her. How did you know that?’
‘She has a “Jesus Lives” bumper sticker. And then there’s a girl from Katrineholm called Hannah Persson.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘What’s she doing here?’
Anne Snapphane took a deep breath. When she spoke again her voice contained at least a modicum of life, as if it was invigorating to talk about something humdrum.
‘She’s the secretary of the Katrineholm NP, the neo-Nazis. She was on the panel of the final show along with two anarchists, and they really kicked up a fuss. The anarchists attacked Michelle and this girl and left the Nazi with a bloody nose. Me and one of the sound technicians had to break up the fight. My chin got scratched.’
‘Why did she stay on after you wrapped?’
‘Free booze. No one had the energy to get rid of her. Anyone else?’
‘Barbara Hanson?’
‘That bitch? Sure, she was here to sneer at Michelle, as usual. She got stinking drunk, of course, and passed out before midnight.’
‘What about Karin Bellhorn?’
‘I just talked to her. She’s in the room across the hall.’
‘Anyone by the name of Sebastian Follin?’
‘That would be Michelle’s manager, the guy who takes care of all her contracts, public relations, and appearances and stuff. They had some kind of falling-out last night.’
‘Bambi Rosenberg, the babe from the soaps?’
‘Bambi the bimbo? Yeah, she’s Michelle’s best friend. She was on the next-to-last show and she stayed for the wrap party. Michelle definitely needed to have a good friend around, that’s for sure …’
‘What about Stefan Axelsson, the technical director?’
‘He took care of the whole shebang from the bus all day long. A very talented technical director, but a real sourpuss; he complained non-stop about everything and everybody. He’s here.’
‘And then there’s you and some technical wiz in charge of the bus.’
‘That’s right – Gunnar Antonsson. He loves that bus more than his life.’
‘Do you think they’ll talk to me?’
Anne Snapphane managed to laugh.
‘That depends on which one you approach,’ she said. ‘Sebastian definitely will. Steffe? No way. Michelle herself would have spat in your face. She detested Kvällspressen after all the garbage you guys wrote about her, claimed she was being persecuted. And you know what? I almost agree with her.’
‘Come on,’ Annika countered, ‘she could take it. Being in the public eye like that. So who is the twelfth person?’
Annika noticed that Anne was referring to Michelle as though the murder victim could still express her views, which gave her pause.
‘He’s left already.’
‘How could that be possible? The police have roped off the entire island.’
‘He left real early, before Michelle’s body was found.’
‘Who? Who is this person?’
Anne inhaled so sharply that she made a whistling sound.
‘Well, I guess it can’t stay a secret for ever.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘No one was supposed to know until the show was aired. We recorded his stuff in the music room in the Castle, so the other guests never saw him. It’s John Essex.’
Annika couldn’t help but gasp.
‘Are you for real? Is that on the level?’
‘It most certainly is. He’s so hot, we were drooling.’
‘Are you serious? How did you manage to get him to come to Yxtaholm?’
‘Karin gets the credit for that – her ex-husband is the band’s producer. Essex was going to be the highlight of the series.’
Annika was so excited that she had to stand up.
‘This is fantastic,’ she said. ‘John Essex was at Yxtaholm when Michelle Carlsson was murdered and he left before she was found.’
‘The band left around nine last night, but John hung around and partied. I saw him right before one o’clock, but I don’t know when he left. He could have been out of here way before she was killed.’
‘Does anyone know when she was shot?’
‘I saw her at two-thirty. I didn’t hear any gunsho
t, but then again, I didn’t go anywhere near the bus. It was packed and locked. And there were several pretty fierce thunder showers all night.’
‘That means they hadn’t detained twelve people, only eleven. And the twelfth little Indian did a runner.’
‘I guess.’
‘What kind of gun was used?’
Anne paused again.
‘It belonged to the Nazi girl,’ she finally said. ‘A silly kind of revolver, humongous and fussy-looking. She had been showing it off all night. Promise me you’ll call Mehmed?’
‘I will, don’t worry. I don’t expect we’ll be staying here much longer.’
‘Are there lots of media people around?’
‘A lot less than you’d expect. They’ve closed off the entire point; only a few of us managed to get in. As soon as they have some officers to spare they’ll make us leave too.’
They grew silent again, letting themselves be lulled by the faint buzz of the connection. Annika watched the irregular tracks of the raindrops as they slid down the glass walls and remembered other Midsummer weekends spent with Anne Snapphane in her apartment in Stockholm’s historic Gamla Stan district. The rain had been pouring down then just like it was today and they had watched sci-fi movies about life in space.
‘Funny that we should be spending Midsummer together again, you and I,’ she remarked.
Anne Snapphane couldn’t help laughing, a sad laugh that quickly died out.
‘You know what?’ Annika said. ‘I ran into Pia Lakkinen, from my old paper, Katrineholms-Kuriren. Guess what she said? That everyone in Katrineholm thinks that Thomas has left me and the kids.’
‘Really?’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘What about it?’
‘It was such a nasty thing to say. Don’t you agree?’
‘No, why?’
They went back to being silent again. Family was one of the two subjects where their opinions clashed. The other subject was TV journalism.
‘Listen,’ Annika said, ‘do you know who shot her?’
Anne Snapphane started breathing heavily. The nightmarish feeling was back.
‘I heard an awful fight right after midnight,’ she said. ‘Over at the Stables, the place is a shambles.’
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