Prime Time

by Liza Marklund

  Talk about poor judgement, he thought, and he didn’t mean the publication of Barbara Hanson’s tasteless column.

  How did you ever get involved in this business without having the expertise or the right weapons?

  Schyman went over to the phone again and dialled Annika Bengtzon’s in-house number.

  ‘Go to the paper’s morgue,’ he said when the reporter picked up. ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  He sank back down in his chair, unlocked the desk’s bottom drawer and pulled out his ‘Anthrax file’. It went straight down into his briefcase. Then he threw on his jacket, left the room and headed for the garage.

  ‘You can reach me on my cellphone if you need me,’ he told Spike as he passed him. ‘I’m going out to grab a bite.’

  The news editor gave him the thumbs-up. Schyman left the newsroom through the main entrance and said hello to Bertil Strand on the way to the garage. Once the photographer had entered the office building, Schyman changed direction and went over to the outdoor entrance to the cafeteria, opened it with his pass and took the elevator to the second floor. The long corridor was cloaked in a bluish darkness, dimly lit by a few blinking fluorescent lights at the end of the hallway.

  Annika Bengtzon stood with her back to the wall right next to the entrance to the morgue.

  ‘The police are going to arrest the neo-Nazi kid from Katrineholm,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s go inside and sit down,’ Schyman said, moving on to the next door.

  ‘Where is Carl Wennergren?’ Annika asked, coming up behind him. ‘Has he left on vacation a week early?’

  ‘I sent him home. It’s bad enough that one of the suspects is spewing garbage in our paper.’

  ‘I saw him at the Stables,’ the reporter said. ‘In the trashed room I wrote about. It seemed like he was looking for something. Has he said anything about it?’

  ‘It was a camera,’ Schyman said. ‘The police have already returned it – it had nothing to do with the murder investigation.’

  Annika Bengtzon glanced up at him, almost disappointed.

  The smell of dust and evaporating developer hit them, a cold draught from the filing cabinets loaded with thousands of pictures. Light came in from a window at the far end of the room, back-lighting the cabinets with their drawers labelled in such a cryptic way that no uninitiated person would ever be able to find what they were looking for.

  ‘This is about a suspected insider deal,’ the managing editor said as he sat down at an old wooden table by the windows and pulled out the red file from his briefcase.

  The reporter silently sat down across from him, attentive and puzzled.

  ‘Substantial stock holdings of an IT company were sold some time during the second half of last year,’ he continued and removed the elastic-band closures. ‘I would like you to find out when this transaction took place, the exact date.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be difficult,’ Annika Bengtzon said. ‘Transactions like that are supposed to be reported to the Financial Supervisory Board.’

  ‘This case is a bit more complicated,’ Anders Schyman explained, picking up the minutes, the clippings and the press release. ‘The individual in question wasn’t obliged to report his transactions, he wasn’t a member of the board and he didn’t belong to the management of the company he owned stock in, so his business transactions were never registered.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ the reporter asked.

  The managing editor looked at the woman with a wary expression.

  Oh, my God, he thought. What am I doing? She could bring me down, just get up and leave and make sure that I get fired before lunch.

  Despair engulfed him, this new sense of powerlessness that was beginning to be a habit.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. ‘I don’t know how to explain it.’

  ‘This has something to do with Torstensson, doesn’t it?’ Annika Bengtzon asked. ‘He’s letting this paper go to the dogs and you don’t know how to stop him. Is this some old dirt you want me to root around in?’

  Anders Schyman stopped holding his breath, letting it out in a lengthy sigh that ricocheted against the metal cabinets.

  ‘You do like calling a spade a spade, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘That depends,’ she replied.

  Schyman hesitated momentarily.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Torstensson has to go, and he won’t go willingly.’

  ‘What about the board?’ Annika said. ‘Can’t they budge him?’

  Schyman shook his head.

  ‘Herman Wennergren won’t play. If we want him out, we have to get rid of him ourselves.’

  ‘How?’

  He showed her the minutes from last year’s meeting on 27 June that clearly showed that the board of Kvällspressen had received prior knowledge of Global Future’s impending profit warning. According to these minutes, Torstensson had been present as a co-opted member. At some point during the following six months, Torstensson sold his shares.

  ‘That isn’t necessarily a crime,’ Annika said.

  ‘No,’ Schyman conceded. ‘But it might be. It all depends on when the transaction took place. If he unloaded his holdings before this information was made public, he’s guilty of insider trading.’

  ‘Even if he wasn’t on the board of the company?’

  ‘If a cab driver overhears a conversation in the backseat of his cab, and uses that information to make a profit on the stock market, that would make him guilty of insider trading.’

  ‘That would be hard to prove, though,’ the reporter countered, a bit tartly.

  ‘This ought to be easier. Could you check up the facts for me?’

  Expectantly and with a slight feeling of misgiving, Annika studied Schyman.

  ‘And if I find something, what do I do? Write a piece for tomorrow’s paper?’

  He had to smile.

  ‘Not exactly. Just tell me what you find.’

  ‘So what’s the magic date?’

  ‘The report for the second quarter, the one that included a profit warning, was made public last year, on 20 July.’

  Annika got a pen and a slip of paper out of a back pocket and made some notes.

  ‘So, all sales transactions taking place after 27 June but before 20 July would mean that Torstensson had exploited confidential information regarding the poor returns of Global Future,’ she said, summing things up.

  Schyman sighed as weariness wrenched at his soul.

  ‘Actually, it’s worse than that. He knew that the family was going to bail out, which means that the company would be more or less worthless.’

  Annika took some more notes and stuffed the paper back in her pocket again.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Anyone making inquiries is going to leave a trail,’ he said. ‘So I can’t do it myself.’

  ‘The Securities Register Centre,’ Annika said. ‘They keep a record of their visitors, right?’

  ‘That’s where you’ve got to start, but I don’t think it’ll be enough. You’ll need to pound the pavement to get anywhere.’

  ‘Why me?’

  Schyman licked his lips and chose his words carefully.

  ‘There aren’t many reporters on this paper who have the capacity to get hold of this information.’

  Annika made a sound somewhere in between a laugh and a snort.

  ‘And I’m the easiest one to persuade?’

  He smiled a little.

  ‘If that’s what you think, you have a strange perception of yourself. You know exactly why?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said as she got up and brushed the dust off the seat of her jeans. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You think like me,’ he said.

  For a brief moment the reporter was caught off guard and the astonishment she felt was clearly displayed on her face. Then she regained her composure and said in her usual bantering tone:

  ‘I could choose to see th
is as an assault on my integrity,’ she quipped. ‘Or an acknowledgement of my capacity. So, I’ll choose the latter. You’ll be wanting to keep those documents, I guess?’

  Schyman shooed her away, his throat dry as dust.

  When Annika reached the doorway she suddenly turned around, looking very petite and delicate.

  ‘Wennergren’s camera,’ she said. ‘What happened to it?’

  All at once Anders Schyman could picture the shiny contours of the camera, could sense its weight in his hand.

  ‘It was impounded,’ he said. ‘But it’s been released.’

  She remained where she was, her hand on the door.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Are there any pictures in it?’

  The numbness he had felt when he saw the sex scenes overcame him again, the secret shame of the voyeur. He jumped up, shaking off the unpleasant sensation.

  ‘You go first,’ he said. ‘Then come over to my office.’

  Five minutes later Annika saw Schyman sail through the main entrance. She let him take off his jacket and sit down at his desk with a paper before she got up. Moving swiftly, she walked over to the fish tank and tapped on the door. He motioned her to come in.

  ‘My name is Bengtzon,’ she said, pulling the door partially closed behind her. ‘Annika Bengtzon. Shaken, not stirred. Is the camera here?’

  Filled with hesitation, Anders Schyman looked at her.

  Her mouth went dry.

  ‘Close the door properly,’ he said finally and unlocked one of his desk drawers. He pulled out a shiny device that looked more like a Walkman than a camera. A blipping sound signalled that it was being turned on, and he checked to see that it was working before wordlessly handing it over to Annika.

  The display was lit up from within. Anne Snapphane was laughing up at her, definitely in party mode.

  ‘How do I flip through the pictures?’ she asked and he pointed out the button.

  She pressed it, blip, Sebastian Follin’s tongue. She made a face. Blip, Carl Wennergren, grinning away in the lounge of the Stables before it was vandalized.

  ‘Are there only pictures of tipsy party people?’ Annika asked, glancing at the managing editor.

  ‘Go to number sixteen or seventeen,’ he said.

  She flipped through the pictures, blip, blip, blip, then heard herself gasp and felt a tingling between her thighs.

  Michelle Carlsson and John Essex, screwing on the dining-room table. Legs, shiny thighs, white buttocks. For a few seconds she stared in fascination, then moved on to the next picture. Blip.

  Annika felt her pulse start to race and her crotch grow hot. Her mouth half-open, she continued to go through the pictures, blip, blip, increasingly conscious of the throbbing sensation between her legs.

  She looked up at Schyman, ashamed of her reaction.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she exclaimed theatrically. ‘This is really something.’

  ‘Go on,’ her boss said and waved.

  She tried to look at the pictures from some other perspective. They grew progressively fuzzier. The photographer appeared to be having a hard time holding the camera steady.

  ‘He was probably hiding in the kitchen,’ she said, shattering her mood.

  Anders Schyman made a rolling motion with his hand.

  When she reached the final shot Annika gasped again.

  Mariana von Berlitz was holding the murder weapon.

  ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do with this?’

  He walked up to Annika, took the camera, switched it off and put it back in the drawer. Which he locked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The pictures are spectacular and unique. They need to be used judiciously.’

  Annika felt her jaw drop.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ she exclaimed and blinked. ‘Are you thinking about publishing them?’

  The managing editor sat down.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said again. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’

  Rebellion exploded through her and anger coloured her face.

  ‘What the hell,’ she demanded. ‘Is this a porno magazine?’

  ‘The pictures do have other merits,’ Schyman quickly countered, pressing his fingertips together.

  Completely taken aback, Annika flung her arms out side.

  ‘Like what, for instance? It damn well isn’t the sharp focus and the lighting. How can you even consider going public with these shots?’

  ‘The timing,’ he said. ‘The moment in time. The two stars together – she’s dead and he’s a suspect. Actually, it’s pretty amazing.’

  Annika backed away towards the door.

  ‘Sex shots taken on the sly,’ she said. ‘Could there be a worse assault on the subject’s integrity? Would you like someone to publish stuff like this after you’d been murdered?’

  She regarded him with astonishment and doubt.

  First this unpleasant spying mission.

  Now this.

  ‘What about Mariana?’ she said. ‘What do the police say?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Thoughts and reactions pitched around the room for a few seconds.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, opening the door halfway and lowering her voice. ‘No matter what you’re involved in, don’t lose your good sense, for Christ’s sake.’

  Annika went back to her desk and noticed that her hands were shaking. The people in the pictures danced in front of her eyes: sex, booze and guns. She was ashamed of her own reaction.

  As she sank down on her chair she looked up and saw the managing editor yank open his door with a bang and walk over to Pelle Oscarsson at the photo desk.

  ‘Could you delete the pictures in this camera?’ she heard him say. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him place the camera on the picture editor’s desk.

  ‘What?’ Picture Pelle said, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him, his voice partially drowned out by computer fans.

  She quickly got up, feigning a trip to the lavatory.

  ‘It’s filled with a load of junk that I don’t want to have spread around the newsroom,’ Anders Schyman said as she walked past. He shot her a stern look.

  The picture editor looked up, a somewhat vacant look on his face.

  ‘You want this done in a hurry? I’m busy with these graphics right now.’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ Anders Schyman said, looking at Annika again before returning to his office.

  Dumbstruck, she kept walking. Her palms were sopping wet.

  ‘Coffee?’

  Anne Snapphane shook her head and Sebastian Follin poured himself a cup instead. He had two scratches on his cheek, Anne noted, but it didn’t seem to bother him. The broken-heartedness she had seen in him after the murder was starting to disappear. It had been replaced by determination: there was a task to be undertaken, a memory to honour.

  In death, she thought, as in life.

  ‘The next step is very important,’ Follin whispered in confiding tones, leaning towards her while the heat from his coffee cup made his glasses steam up.

  Anne backed away slightly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve got to protect the brand. People are going to want to use Michelle Carlsson to make money, but these things must be handled with dignity and an eye to the long term.’

  Anne stared at the man, unable to accept the meaning of his words.

  ‘Are you listening to yourself?’ she said, her voice too shrill and too loud. ‘You’re talking about her as if she was a logotype.’

  The manager collapsed. His lower lip began to quiver.

  ‘I just want to do the right thing,’ he said.

  ‘Only who is it right for?’ Anne said, suddenly uncomfortable.

  She turned away, gazed around the room, through the glass walls and out over the newsroom.

  Karin Bellhorn sat in the sofa next to her desk. She was leaning forward and talking to Mariana von Berli
tz and Stefan Axelsson in a low voice. Anne Snapphane hurried over to them. She could feel that she looked pale.

  ‘I can’t get over the feeling that this is all a trick,’ Mariana said to the others as Anne appeared beside the sofa. ‘Any minute now we’ll hear the theme from the show and she’ll come bouncing out, thinner than ever and with a brand-new look. Just imagine the ratings!’

  Anne Snapphane looked at her colleague with astonishment.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ she heard herself say.

  ‘What?’ Mariana said. ‘Can’t I admit that it feels like I’m on Candid Camera?’

  Anne noticed that her mouth kept talking, that she couldn’t stop herself, and she didn’t want to.

  ‘Now that she’s dead, do you have to keep picking on her? How much did you hate her for being the one on TV?’

  Mariana von Berlitz blanched.

  ‘What … what was that? Are you out of your mind?’

  Anne Snapphane felt the attention of everyone in the room shifting to her. Regardless of the sheer mystery of the fact that they had been uttered at all, her words hung in the air, stunning them all with their truthfulness. The blood rushed to her chest and throat, making her cheeks burn.

  ‘Why don’t you have the courage to admit it? You’ve always been jealous of Michelle.’

  Mariana had got to her feet. She was shaking and held on to the armrest of the sofa for support.

  ‘I’ve known Michelle Carlsson so much longer than you have,’ she said in a hoarse voice. ‘And I’ll have you know that my reservations against her are based on completely different issues.’

  ‘Quit pretending! I’m not one damn bit better than you. I’ve been pissed off at Michelle for years because she got the job on screen and I didn’t,’ Anne continued, the words streaming out of her. ‘You weren’t even considered. Is that why you’re always so condescending? Because I had been in the running?’

  ‘There are scads of things that are way more important than being on TV,’ Mariana von Berlitz said emphatically and sat down again. ‘There’s eternity, for instance, and Michelle Carlsson never did anything but spoil other people’s chances of finding a meaningful existence.’

  Anne Snapphane couldn’t help but snort.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ she exclaimed. ‘Did Michelle steal customers from God?’

  Mariana chose to ignore the blasphemy.