Prime Time

by Liza Marklund

  Annika sighed, knowing how hard it was on Thomas to be unable to plan. He couldn’t accept her assurances that it would work out and he wouldn’t listen to her analysis of the situation. That there were other jobs out there, other employers. Whenever she showed him an ad in the paper for a position such as a senior accountant within the Social Services sector or a financial officer, he got testy and sullen.

  Actually, she knew what the problem was. Thomas wanted to have a fancy job. He wanted to have a position that topped being the chief financial officer of the city of Vaxholm. He wanted to show his parents and his old friends that his career had moved up a notch or two, even though the rest of his life might have gone downhill.

  Annika looked out over the park and noticed that it had stopped raining. She was aware that Thomas saw his life in this light. She was a step down. Nothing she was, had or did could compete with Eleonor, his wife, the banker, in that sumptuous house in Vaxholm. They had never discussed it, but a certain tenseness around his mouth told her that was how he felt. Her efforts weren’t good enough, and never would be.

  For the first two years they had lived together in her apartment, in an old building that the landlord was planning to tear down, where there wasn’t any elevator. In addition to this there was no toilet inside their flat and no hot water. As long as it had been just the two of them living there, it had worked out. But once Kalle was born things had become almost intolerable. Annika had worked like the dickens and had done a lot of crying, but she had never complained. She knew that the day she complained would be the day when Thomas walked out. She was the one who stayed home on maternity leave, never demanding anything from him. She did the dishes, heated the water, breastfed the baby, did the shopping and cleaning, changed the diapers, and made love – all with the same dogged determination. As long as she could take it, they would make it. To help ensure that they could stay on, she acted as an unpaid apartment-block superintendent. She changed light bulbs in the stairwells, made sure there was toilet paper and paper towels in the bathroom that the tenants shared in the part of the complex that faced the street, and called the landlord whenever her neighbours complained of leaks or cracks in the dilapidated building.

  When the building facing the street was eventually remodelled, she was the spokesperson for the tenants, negotiating solutions that were acceptable to all.

  She was six months pregnant with Ellen when the letter arrived. They were offered a contract for a four-bedroom apartment in the remodelled building. It was on the fourth floor, and there was an elevator, an old-fashioned tile stove and a balcony facing the courtyard. She had cried tears of joy when she read it, but Thomas’s comment still rang in her ears to this day:

  ‘The rent’s so steep that we could afford three houses.’

  He was probably right. It was expensive, but the apartment was fabulous. Panelling, old-fashioned doors, freshly refinished oiled wooden parquet floors in all the rooms, a range with a ceramic cooktop, two bathrooms with heated floors.

  The first time that Thomas’s parents came to see their new place they had said the same thing:

  ‘What did you say the rent was? You could pay for a house with that kind of money.’

  Thomas’s mother found it hard to like Annika – she couldn’t forgive her for disrupting her life. Eleonor had been the daughter she’d never had. As far as Annika knew, the two women still socialized a great deal. Not even the children made much of a difference to her standing with her motherin-law.

  ‘Poor children,’ Thomas’s mother would exclaim, ‘having to live in the city.’

  No matter what Annika did, it was never good enough.

  ‘Oh dear,’ her motherin-law might say, ‘the children are so skinny. Aren’t they eating right?’

  What she meant was: ‘Aren’t you feeding them?’ Followed by: ‘Let’s hope they won’t be as skinny as you.’

  Annika had no relationship at all with her father-in-law. Whenever he came to visit, he quickly buried his nose in a paper or magazine and only replied absent-mindedly in monosyllables. Sometimes he would go and lie down on their bed and sleep through dinner.

  A sharp thunderclap caused Annika to jump to her feet. Once again, the sky was overcast: a dark and ominous vault suspended over the white buildings. The air crackled with electricity and a gust of wind pushed her forward. Irritated, she shoved the damp pad in her bag and slung it over her shoulder. A second later the entire landscape exploded in a bluish-white light, followed by another thunderclap a split second later. Any moment now the rain would assault her.

  Noiselessly, she made her way behind the hedges, hugging close against the back of the old stable building. A glance at the parking lot told her that the other reporters had left. The police officer over by the barrier who had been guarding the path to the castle had disappeared. Another bolt of lightning split the heavens. The delay before the thunderclap was heard was slightly longer this time – the storm was moving away. She quickly retraced her steps. A basement window of the laundry facilities was banging in the wind. She hoped she wouldn’t have to crawl in through it. Gingerly, she pressed down on the handle of the kitchen’s back door. It squeaked a bit and opened with an unoiled groan. Then the first raindrops hit her. They were as big as tennis balls. Without reflecting more on the matter, Annika went into the scullery and closed the door behind her.

  The darkness enveloped her immediately. The torrents of rain pulled down a grey blind outside the only window in the room. She could make out a washing machine and a dryer, a small stainless-steel sink and piles of dirty bedlinen. A door led into a small kitchen and she went in: a dishwasher, a coffee-maker, a kitchen table covered with a plastic tablecloth and surrounded by six chairs. The place was littered with empty bottles, rubbish and dirty dishes. There was a window facing the backyard and a door appearing to lead to the parlour was ajar. Annika opened the door fully and stopped short, utterly perplexed.

  Practically every single stick of furniture had been knocked over: a sofa, two armchairs, and a dining table. A few chairs were broken and had been piled up near the front door. A vase of flowers had been smashed to smithereens in front of the fireplace, the lupins now wilting in a welter of splintered china and spilled water. The rugs were all scrunched up and a picture had fallen down from the wall.

  A thought flashed through Annika’s mind: I shouldn’t be here. I really ought to leave.

  But she remained nailed to the spot, staring at the mess. A giant had ploughed through this place, tipping, tossing and crushing everything in its path. Fascinated, she tried to picture the scenario of this destruction, the strength of the arms that had splintered the backs of the dining-room chairs. Cautiously, she picked her way through the mess, approaching the upended table, noting the playing cards and broken glasses on the other side. The awareness that she shouldn’t be there made the adrenalin course through her system and she moved on, picking up her pace.

  There were papers behind one of the armchairs, computer printouts with blocked diagrams. Annika bent over, picked one up and read the words ‘Schedule for show no. 7, Summer Frolic at the Castle’. She skimmed through the paper. It contained instructions for someone on the TV team but the words didn’t reveal who it could be: ‘Opener, card, video segment, live, closing words, music, intro, guest, card …’ She dropped it so that it landed more or less where it had been before. Then she walked over to the fireplace, a bolt of lightning creating razor-sharp shadows round the room.

  Someone went on a rampage, she thought, feeling uneasy and strangely excited at the same time.

  Next to the broken vase there was a dark bundle. Annika stole closer, picked up a corner of cloth with a pinching motion and held it up to the light from the window. An item of clothing, black. It was a skirt, slightly damp from the rain or from the water in the vase. She dropped it again and looked around. A thought struck her and she put her hand in the ashes of the fireplace. They were cold, no heat remaining from the night before.

&nbs
p; She brushed her hands together to remove the soot and dust when the sky exploded overhead. The peal of thunder shook the whole house, bolts of lightning flashed, and she backed against the wall in alarm. The smell of the electrical discharge filled the air, its sulphurous odour making Annika gag slightly.

  I can see why people believed in Thor, she thought.

  A second later she heard a noise from the front door on the other side of the room. Paralysed, she stared at the door handle. The next flash of lightning revealed the handle being pressed down and the door opening slowly.

  Annika gasped, took three quick steps over to the kitchen and peered back from her hiding place behind the door. It was a man. He quickly entered the parlour and closed the door. When he pushed back the hood of his raincoat she was so relieved that her legs shook briefly. That bastard! What was he doing here?

  She stayed where she was, concealed by the door, and watched him rifle through the mess. He moved cautiously, stopping during the most violent thunderclaps, then going back to sifting through the jumble of items and tossing them aside. Crouching down, he looked under certain items, lifted others up and felt around with his hands in the darkest corners. When he was about a metre away from the kitchen door she opened it wide and said:

  ‘Lose something?’

  Carl Wennergren jumped up and flew backwards. His face was chalky white while his eyes were as big as saucers and shone with terror. Annika leaned against the door; she couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘What the––?’ Carl Wennergren sputtered. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’

  ‘The paper sent me,’ Annika said. ‘Have you talked to Spike yet? He’s been going on like a madman about you all day.’

  ‘How the hell did you get in?’

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  Wennergren’s breath came out in gasps. He was soaked through, Annika noticed.

  ‘That’s none of your damn business.’

  Annika looked at her colleague. She’d never seen him like this. Carl Wennergren was the newsroom hunk, the paper’s charmer, management’s pet, the son of the chairman of the board. Over the years there had been quite a few clashes between them. In Annika’s opinion, Carl was spoiled and had questionable ethics. What he felt about her she could only guess. Right now he wasn’t particularly arrogant or cool, and it suited him.

  ‘Have a seat,’ she said and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Have you talked to Schyman or anyone else at the paper?’

  Carl Wennergren stared at her, his fear beginning to subside. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve been interviewed by the police.’

  ‘What luck that we ran into each other,’ Annika said. ‘Now you can tell me what happened yesterday.’

  Her colleague snorted, a sound that was supposed to come out as a laugh.

  ‘Tell you? Why should I tell you anything?’

  He really hates me, Annika thought. The sulphurous fumes tore at her nostrils.

  ‘Because we work for the same paper,’ she replied, hearing to her dismay that her voice was quavering. ‘If we collaborate we’ll have a leg up on everyone else. I know some things, but you know so much more. We could work out what we can go to press with and what needs to be suppressed for the good of the investigation. This is going to be the biggest news item of the summer, and your story would put us way ahead of the competition.’

  Annika looked up at her colleague, biting her lip when she realized that she’d been pleading.

  ‘Of course it would,’ Carl Wennergren said. ‘But my story is mine. Not yours. Why should I hand over a headline to you?’

  She felt rage blaze through her body. His rejection of her suggestion made her stomach wrench. Carl Wennergren grinned. His self-confidence and arrogance had returned. Annika gritted her teeth and met his gaze.

  ‘All right,’ she said and got up. ‘Then I won’t be keeping you – you seemed so awfully busy. Would you like me to help you?’

  She paused and looked up at him.

  ‘You know what I think?’ she said. ‘I think the police have already found it, whatever it may be.’

  The grin was wiped off his face. Annika pushed past him, picked up her bag and headed for the back door.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  She paused and looked up at him.

  ‘What went on in here, for one thing.’

  Carl Wennergren stared out into the gloom and swallowed audibly.

  ‘There was one hell of a row,’ he said.

  Annika suppressed the urge to make a snide comment.

  ‘Sebastian Follin walked in on Michelle and John Essex while they were getting it on. He went crazy.’

  ‘Getting it on?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got two kids, so you must know the drill.’

  Annika felt her cheeks grow hot.

  ‘So, did Sebastian Follin tear the place up?’

  Carl Wennergren looked down at the floor. Annika saw his mouth tense up, but she wasn’t sure what that meant. Was he struggling with a lie or with the truth? Was he embarrassed about not knowing even though he had been there? Was he trying to protect someone? Was he the killer?

  Involuntarily, Annika backed away from him. She realized that she couldn’t trust anything he said. So she slung her bag over her shoulder and pulled out her cellphone to call Berit on her way out.

  As soon as Annika and Berit had parked in front of the Loftet motel in Flen, the rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly the Grand Hotel,’ Berit Hamrin said.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Annika said. ‘My mother celebrated her fiftieth birthday here. Afterwards she claimed that the pork roast had given her food poisoning, but the rest of us knew why she’d been throwing up.’

  Berit smiled wryly.

  It was so much easier to breathe now. The thunderstorm had cleared the air and washed it crispy clean. Golden shafts of evening light filtered down on the asphalt. Apart from Bertil Strand’s and Berit’s cars, the parking lot was empty. On the other side of the road, Katrineholmsvägen, Annika could see a few young men talking over by the Statoil filling station. Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, she studied them for a second or two. All the kids from Hällefors had been bused into Flen, to attend secondary school at Stenhammarsskolan, and the locals had treated them like country bumpkins. This feeling of inferiority lingered when she encountered people of her own age in Flen. She thought she recognized at least two of the guys.

  Then it struck her that they were ten years younger than her.

  Oh my God, she thought, I’m getting old.

  ‘Can I get you something to eat? A schnitzel or a schnitzel?’

  Annika smiled.

  ‘With fried potatoes?’

  ‘Or how about fried potatoes?’ Berit joked. ‘Now go upstairs, you’re in room three. The key’s in the door. I’m in room number one, Bertil’s in number four …’

  The room was as lacklustre as the menu, but there was plenty of hot water in the shower. Annika had just slipped back into her clothes when Berit walked in with a tray.

  ‘Voilà, mademoiselle,’ Berit said as she set down the meal on one of the night-stands. ‘It is still “miss”, isn’t it?’

  Annika rolled her eyes and started tucking into the tough pork.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with Schyman and Spike,’ Berit said as Annika chewed away. ‘We agreed that you and I would split the story as much as possible. There are a few reporters on the night shift up in Stockholm, but they’re rookies filling in for the holidays. Is it true that John Essex was there?’

  Annika took big gulps of her cola and remembered how frustrating it was to fill in as a reporter: you were never included and never good enough.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said.

  ‘The entertainment team has gone bananas. They’re hunting down his crew all over Europe for comments, so they’ll take that story. Let’s see …’

  Berit checked different items off a list.

  ‘I’ve ordered
copies of every story there is on Michelle from the paper’s morgue – they’re on their way as we speak. In addition to the crime stuff we have to write a cradle-to-grave version of the Michelle Carlsson story.’

  ‘The girl from the wrong side of the tracks became Sweden’s biggest TV star,’ Annika said somewhat indistinctly, her mouth full of food. ‘The sub-header: Her life a sad fairy tale.’

  Berit smiled.

  ‘Then there’s the crime bit,’ she said. ‘A star is killed: the death of Michelle Carlsson shocks Sweden’s entertainment community. The hunt for the killer, the clues, how could it happen, all that.’

  ‘I can do it,’ Annika said and tried to remove a bit of gristle stuck between her molars. ‘The murder weapon belonged to one of the guests on the show, I’ll put that in.’

  Berit nodded appreciatively.

  ‘The final show, facts about the series, the taping sessions, the guests – do you know anything about those things?’

  ‘Not much, but that’s easy. The entertainment department has got to have some material. If nothing else, the press rep over at TV Plus should be able to provide something for us. Why not let the entertainment department handle it?’

  ‘I’ll ask Spike,’ Berit said, taking notes. ‘They want a piece about the castle, too. They say you know all about it.’

  ‘That’s an overstatement,’ Annika replied and downed the last of her cola. ‘How much do they want?’

  ‘Two thousand characters, tops. Unlimited when it comes to the crime stuff. What else do you have?’

  ‘The last night at the castle, the survivors.’

  ‘Right,’ Berit said, pointing her pen skywards. ‘That’s the biggest story for tomorrow, that and the John Essex thing. Use whatever you’ve got, just be careful when it comes to the wording about suspects and potential killers.’