‘This is what we’ll do. I’m going to drive over and talk to that guy in charge of production . . .’ he said, snapping his fingers as he tried to remember his name.
‘Rehn, Fredrik Rehn,’ Mellberg filled in, and Patrik nodded in gratitude, though he was surprised. It wasn’t often that Mellberg contributed any relevant information.
‘Right, Fredrik Rehn. Martin and Hanna, you two sit down and write a report about what you saw and heard last night. And Gösta,’ he said, trying feverishly to think of something to assign to Gösta. Finally he said, ‘Gösta, you find out more about the people who own the house where the body was found in the rubbish bin. I don’t suppose there’s any connection there, but you never know.’
Gösta gave a weary nod. A specific job to do. He could already feel the weight of responsibility.
‘So, that’s that.’ Patrik clapped his hands together as a sign that the meeting was over. ‘We have plenty to do.’ Everyone muttered something in reply and got up. Patrik watched as they filed out of the room. He wondered if they had any idea what was about to hit them when the news broke and the full force of the media was unleashed.
‘This is going to be fantastic! I can smell success a mile away!’ Fredrik Rehn pounded the technician on the back as they sat in the cramped space in the studio bus. They had gone over the footage from the day before and had begun editing. Fredrik liked what he saw. But anything that was good could always be made better.
‘Could we add a few more boos when Tina is singing? What we have on tape sounds a bit skimpy, and I think her performance was so dire that we should amp up the booing from the audience.’ He laughed, and the editing guy nodded enthusiastically. More booing, no problem at all. A bit more sound added on several channels and he could make it seem as though everyone in the audience was on his feet shouting.
‘This lot are priceless,’ Fredrik said with a smile. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘They’re so damned stupid, but they don’t even realize it. Take Tina, for instance – she seriously thinks she’s going to be a big pop star. And yet she can’t even hit a single note right. I talked to the guy who produced her single, and he told me it took every trick in the book just to get her sounding halfway decent. He said she was so off-key that the loudspeaker almost cracked.’ Fredrik laughed and then leaned over the mixing console in front of them. He turned up the volume. ‘Just listen to this. It’s a fucking scream!’ Even the editing guy couldn’t help grinning when he heard her version of ‘I Want to Be Your Little Bunny’. No wonder the Idol jury had slaughtered her.
An authoritative knock on the bus door interrupted their laughter.
‘Come in,’ called Fredrik, turning to see who it was. He didn’t recognize the man who opened the door.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ At the sight of the police badge he got a queasy feeling in his stomach. This couldn’t be anything good. Or maybe it could, depending on what had happened and how telegenic it might be.
‘So, what can we do for you this time?’ Fredrik chuckled as he stood up to greet the officer.
The policeman came in and found a place to sit among all the cords and cables. He looked around with curiosity.
‘Yes, this is where it all happens,’ said Fredrik proudly. ‘Hard to believe that we can do a programme from this small space that tops the ratings, isn’t it? Of course, some additional work is done back in Stockholm,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘But the creative part is done right here.’
The officer, who introduced himself as Patrik Hedström, nodded politely. Then he cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he said. ‘It’s about one of your cast members.’
Fredrik rolled his eyes. ‘Okay, who is it this time?’ he asked with a sigh. ‘Let me guess . . . it’s Uffe up to his old tricks.’ He turned to the editing guy. ‘I told you that Uffe would be the first one to create a little drama, didn’t I?’ Fredrik turned back to the officer, his curiosity rising. He was trying to work out how to get it on tape – whatever it was.
Patrik cleared his throat again and then said softly, ‘Unfortunately one of your cast members has been found dead.’ It was as if a bomb had exploded in the cramped space. The only sound was the hum of the equipment.
‘What did you say?’ asked Fredrik at last, beginning to regain his composure. ‘One of them was found dead? Who was it? And where? How?’ Thoughts whirled in his head. What had happened? And already parts of his brain were forming a media strategy. Nothing like this had ever happened in the middle of shooting a reality show. Sex – yes, followed by the age-old consequences: pregnancy – the Norwegian Big Brother had broken ground with that. Marriage proposals – yes, there the Swedish Big Brother had had a smash hit with Olivier and Carolina. And that attack with the iron pipe on The Bar had been good for several weeks of headlines. But a death! That was something completely new. Absolutely unique.
‘It’s the girl called Barbie. She was found this morning in a . . .’ Patrik hesitated a moment before he continued, ‘rubbish bin. All indications are that she was killed.’
‘Killed?’ repeated Fredrik. ‘You mean murdered? Was she murdered? Is that what you’re saying? Who did it?’ He probably looked as confused as he felt. This wasn’t on the list of scenarios that had popped into his head.
‘We have no suspect as yet. But we’re going to start interviewing straight away. Beginning with your cast. The officers who observed your party last night reported that there was a lot of arguing between the murdered woman and the other cast members.’
‘Yes, there were some harsh words and a bit of argy bargy,’ said Fredrik, recalling the scenes they had just watched. ‘But nothing that seemed serious enough for anyone to . . .’
‘We also need your tapes from yesterday.’ Patrik’s tone was curt as he looked Fredrik straight in the eye.
Fredrik stared back. ‘I’m not authorized to let you have any tapes,’ he said calmly. ‘Until I receive a warrant directing me to hand over the material, all of it stays here. Anything else is unacceptable.’
‘You do realize that this is a murder investigation?’ Patrik snapped. Though had hoped for a different response it came as no surprise.
‘Yes, I realize that, but we can’t just turn over our material. There are many ethical principles involved.’ He smiled, pretending regret. Patrik merely snorted. They both knew that ethics were not the reason for his refusal.
‘But I presume that you will cancel the broadcast immediately in view of what has happened.’
Fredrik shook his head. ‘We absolutely cannot do that. We have programme slots booked for the next four weeks, and shutting down production now . . . no, it’s simply impossible. And I don’t think Barbie would have wanted that either; she would have wanted us to continue.’
One look at Patrik told him that he’d stepped over the line. The officer’s face was bright red, and he seemed to be fighting to hold back a couple of choice epithets.
‘You don’t mean to tell me that you’re actually considering –’ He broke off and interjected, ‘What was her real name? I can’t keep calling her Barbie. That’s too degrading. And by the way, I’m going to need all her personal data and contact details for her next of kin. Would you be willing to give us that information, or is that also a matter of ethics?’
The last word was dripping with sarcasm, but his anger had no effect on Fredrik. For some reason the reality-show format seemed to engender hostility; he was accustomed to dealing with it. Calmly he replied, ‘Her name is Lillemor Persson. And she grew up in foster homes, so we have no record of a next of kin. But you’ll be given all the information we have. No problem.’ He smiled suavely. ‘When are you starting the interviews? Is there any chance we could film them?’ It was a long shot, and the murderous look he got from Patrik was a clear enough answer.
‘We’ll be starting the interviews immediately,’ Patrik said curtly, getting up to leave the bus. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye before slamming the door beh
ind him.
‘What a fucking stroke of luck,’ said Fredrik breathlessly, and the technician could only nod. This was their chance to take real drama directly into Sweden’s living rooms. For a second he thought of Barbie. Then he picked up the phone. The management had to hear about this. Sodding Tanum goes CSI. Jesus, the ratings would go through the roof!
‘How should we do this?’ Martin asked. He and Hanna had decided to stay in the break room and work, and he reached for the coffee pot to refill their cups. Hanna poured in milk and stirred. ‘Should we each write our own account first, do you think, or should we write it together?’
Hanna thought for a moment. ‘I think it would be more complete if we wrote the report together and compared notes about what we remembered as we work on it.’
‘Okay,’ said Martin, opening his laptop and booting it up. ‘Shall I type, or do you want to?’
‘You type,’ said Hanna. ‘I still type with two fingers, and I’ve never built up any speed.’
‘Okay, I’ll do the typing,’ Martin laughed, entering the password. He opened a new Word document and got ready to start filling the screen with words.
‘The first I noticed of the commotion last night was when I heard loud voices behind the building. How about you?’
Hanna nodded. ‘Yes, I hadn’t noticed anything before that. The only thing we had to deal with earlier in the evening was that girl who was so drunk she couldn’t stand up. What time could that have been? Midnight?’ Martin typed while Hanna talked. ‘Then I think it was around one when I heard two people yelling at each other. I called for you and we went behind the building and found Barbie and Uffe.’
‘Mmm,’ said Martin, still typing. ‘I checked my watch and it was ten to one. I came around the corner first and saw Uffe holding Barbie by the shoulders and shaking her violently. Both of us ran over to them. I took hold of Uffe and dragged him away, while you took care of Barbie.’
‘Yes, and Uffe was so aggressive that he tried aiming some kicks at the girl while you were holding him.’
‘We defused the situation,’ Martin continued, ‘and separated the individuals. I talked to Uffe and told him that he’d have to come down to the station if he didn’t cool it.’
‘I hope you’re not going to write “cool it”,’ Hanna laughed.
‘Well, only temporarily. Later I have to edit the text and make it sound bureaucratic, so don’t worry. For now, just let the words flow so we can get everything down.’
‘Okay,’ said Hanna with a smile. Then she turned serious again. ‘I spoke with Barbie and tried to find out what had precipitated the argument. She was very upset and kept saying that Uffe was mad because she was “talking trash” about him, but that she didn’t understand what he was on about. She calmed down after a while and seemed to be okay.’
‘And then we let them go,’ Martin filled in, looking up from the computer. He pressed Enter twice for a new paragraph, took a gulp of coffee, and continued. ‘The next incident happened at . . . oh, about two thirty, I would say.’
‘Thereabouts,’ said Hanna. ‘Two thirty, quarter to three.’
‘This time it was a partygoer who came to tell us about an argument taking place on the slope down to the school. We approached the scene and saw several people assaulting a lone female. They were taunting and shoving and poking at her. It was the cast members Mehmet, Tina, and Uffe attacking Barbie. We went in and broke up the fight by force. Barbie was crying; her hair was mussed up and her make-up had smeared. She seemed very shaken. I talked to the others, trying to find out what had happened. They gave the same answer as Uffe gave earlier, that Barbie was “talking a lot of trash”. That was the best explanation I could get.’
‘Meanwhile I was with Barbie a short distance away,’ Hanna filled in, sounding emotional. ‘She was upset and scared. I asked if she wanted to file a complaint against them, but she refused. I talked to her for a while trying to calm her down, find out what it was all about, but she claimed that she had no idea. After a while I looked round to see what was going on with you. When I turned back, I saw Barbie running in the direction of town, but then she went right instead of heading towards the business district. I considered running after her, but then decided that she probably just needed to be alone and calm down.’ Hanna’s voice was trembling a bit. ‘After that we didn’t see her again.’
Martin looked up from the computer and gave her a smile to console her. ‘We couldn’t have done anything differently. All we knew was that they’d had a strong difference of opinion. There was nothing to indicate that it would . . .’ he paused, ‘end the way it did.’
‘Do you think it was one of the cast members who murdered her?’ Hanna’s voice was still shaky.
‘I don’t know,’ said Martin, reading over what he’d typed on the screen. ‘For the moment, they’re all suspects. We’ll have to see what the interviews turn up.’
He saved the document and shut off the laptop, which he picked up as he got to his feet. ‘I’m going to my office to write up the official version now. If you think of anything else, feel free to knock on my door.’
Hanna simply nodded. After he left she just sat there. Her hands holding the coffee cup were still shaking.
Calle took a stroll through the town. Back in Stockholm he usually worked out at the gym at least five times a week, but here he had to settle for taking walks to work off the calories. He picked up his pace to get the fat burning. Looking fit was important to him. He had no time for people who didn’t take care of their bodies. It was a true pleasure to look at himself in the mirror and admire his toned abdomen, the way his biceps tensed when he flexed his arms, and the muscular build of his torso. When he was out on the town at Stureplan he always unbuttoned his shirt nonchalantly as he approached the clubs. The chicks loved it. They couldn’t stop sticking their hands inside his shirt to feel his chest, raking their nails over his buff physique.
Sometimes he wondered how his life would have been with no money. How it would be to live like Uffe or Mehmet, sitting in some dingy flat in the suburbs, barely managing to make ends meet. Uffe had bragged about the break-ins and the other stuff he’d been into, but Calle could hardly keep from laughing when he heard how little money those petty crimes had brought in. Hell, he got more than that in pocket money from his father every week.
And yet nothing seemed to fill the emptiness in his heart. In recent years he had constantly been searching for something that would finally fill that hole. More champagne, more partying, more chicks, more powder up his nose, more of everything. Always more of everything, as if there was no limit to how much money he could burn through. He didn’t earn any himself. All his money came from his father. And he kept thinking that now . . . now it would finally have to stop. But the money kept coming in. His father paid one bill after another. He bought him the flat in Östermalm without quibbling, and he paid off that girl who cooked up the story about being raped – totally out of thin air, of course, since she had actually come home with him and Ludde, and there was no doubt about the intention. His pockets were constantly being refilled. And there didn’t seem to be any conditions. Calle knew why. His father could never say no because his guilty conscience forced him to keep paying. He kept pouring kronor into the hole in Calle’s chest, but the money just disappeared without taking up any space.
Each of them was trying to replace with money what he had lost. His father by giving it away, Calle by spending it.
As the memories flooded over him, the pain in his chest grew worse. Calle walked faster, urging himself forward, trying to force the images back. But it was impossible to escape the memories. The only thing that could deaden them was a mixture of champagne and cocaine. Lacking those, he had to live with his past. He started to run.
Gösta sighed. Each year it got harder to stay motivated. Going to work in the morning depleted all the energy he had; trying to get anything done was almost impossible. He could spend days worrying about the simplest task. He didn
’t understand how things had got this way. It had crept up on him since Majbritt died, the loneliness eating away at him from inside, depriving him of the pleasure he’d once taken in his work. He’d never been a high flier, he was the first to admit that, but he’d done what he was supposed to do and sometimes even felt a small sense of satisfaction. But what was the point of it all? He had no children to leave anything to; their only child, a son, had died only a few days old. Nobody to come home to in the evening, no one to spend the weekends with. His only pleasure was playing golf. These days it was more of an obsession than a hobby. He’d have liked to play twenty-four hours a day. But it didn’t pay the rent, and he had to keep working at least until he could collect his pension. He was counting the days.
Gösta sat down and stared at his computer. For security reasons they weren’t allowed an Internet connection. Instead he had to check the name that belonged to the address by picking up the phone and ringing directory assistance. After a brief conversation he had tracked down the owner of the summer house to which the rubbish bin belonged. It was a meaningless task from the beginning. His scepticism was confirmed when he got the telephone number to the owner’s home address in Göteborg. It was obvious that they had nothing to do with the murder. It was simply their bad luck that the killer had picked their bin to dispose of the girl.
His thoughts wandered further to the murdered girl. His lack of initiative had nothing to do with a lack of sympathy. He felt for the victims and their next of kin, and he was grateful that at least he hadn’t had to see the girl. Martin was still a little pale when he ran into him in the corridor.
Gösta had seen more than his share of dead bodies, and even after forty years on the job he could still remember every single one. The majority were accident victims and suicides; murder was the exception. But every death had etched a furrow in his memory, and he could recall images that were as clear as photographs. He’d had to inform many people of the death of their loved ones, resulting in plenty of tears, despair, shock, and horror. Maybe that was why he was so despondent now; each death, with all the attendant pain and unhappiness had added a few more drops of misery to the glass of life, until now there was no more room. That was no excuse, but it was a possible explanation.
The Gallows Bird Page 15
