Michelle’s best friend, Annika thought and moved forward to approach her. What if it had been Anne they’d found in the bus? She shook her head to throw off the thought.
‘Bambi?’ the reporter from the competition, Bosse, called out. ‘Bambi Rosenberg, may I ask you some questions, please?’
The woman approached the tape and slowly made her way under it, pulling the huge bag behind her. She had a hard time walking on the gravel path in her high-heeled sandals and tottered slightly. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes were bloodshot and heavily made-up. When she saw the large cameras from the national broadcasting service, her hands instinctively flew up to yank off the elastic, releasing a cascade of blonde hair.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, so softly that Annika sensed her reply rather than heard it. ‘All right …’
‘How do you feel right now?’
The woman’s eyes filled with tears that she carefully brushed away with her fingertips to avoid smearing her mascara.
‘This is so awful,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the most terrible thing that’s ever happened to me.’
‘You knew Michelle well, didn’t you?’ Bosse asked.
Bambi Rosenberg nodded, then searched her pockets for a tissue and blew her nose.
‘She was my best friend.’
Annika could barely hear her. She took a step forward and spoke without introducing herself, due to her paper’s relationship with the deceased.
‘Is there anything in particular that you’d like to say about Michelle?’ Annika asked her in a soft voice.
The woman met Annika’s gaze and appeared to be mustering up some courage.
Looking unseeingly up at the treetops, she finally said: ‘There are a lot of people who should be taking a good look at themselves today.’ The large TV camera whirred in the wind, the reporter for the competition had whipped out a tape recorder, Bertil Strand was focusing his camera and a fascinated Annika studied the young woman.
‘Michelle Carlsson was a genuinely good person,’ Bambi Rosenberg said. ‘There aren’t many out there. I knew her, so I know it’s true. She wanted to make this world a better place. She had an obligation to the young women of Sweden – she wanted to be a role model, show them that you could make it on talent and ambition.’
She paused and took a few deep breaths, Annika wondered how much effort Bambi had put into preparing this speech.
‘The malice that was directed towards Michelle over the past few years was unprecedented,’ she continued, now looking them in the eye, one by one. Annika thought she held her gaze for an extra-long time and felt her cheeks grow hot.
‘The begrudging attitude to Michelle that characterized Swedish journalists was vulgar, it bordered on the disgusting. You enjoyed cutting her to pieces, you sneered when she made mistakes, you wished her the worst of luck, you wanted to hurt her. Now you’ve got what you wanted. Are you satisfied?’
The last sentence came out as a shriek, and she could no longer hold back the tears or save her make-up. Black rivulets coursed down her cheeks while Bambi Rosenberg bolted over to her red convertible, leaving the journalists stunned and uncomfortable.
‘There’s some truth in that,’ Bosse admitted, while the woman from the national broadcasting service just snorted.
‘You can certainly tell why Bambi Rosenberg won’t be offered any parts in a serious production,’ the woman said, and her cameraman and sound technicians snickered.
‘What makes you think that she would want those parts?’ Annika heard herself ask.
The TV team looked at her. The reporter’s expression of surprise gave way to one of disdain and she turned away.
‘It’s like assuming that I covet your job,’ Annika said, ‘just because you happen to think you’re superior. But you know what?’
The TV reporter turned around slowly and stared at Annika as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
‘Excuse me?’ she said.
‘I’d rather work the register over at IKEA,’ Annika informed her and walked back to the parking lot to write down Bambi’s little speech.
‘Well, aren’t we clever?’ she heard Bertil Strand say behind her. ‘Do you have to antagonize everyone in the business?’
‘Get any good shots?’ Annika asked him in a reserved voice. ‘Or didn’t you get enough notice beforehand?’
‘What the hell is your problem?’ the photographer demanded in a frosty voice, his eyes full of disapproval.
Annika sank down on the low wall by the parking lot, not caring that the seat of her pants would be soaked in no time.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied quietly, a lump forming in her throat. ‘It’s all so terrible.’
‘Pull yourself together,’ Bertil Strand snapped back.
Anne Snapphane entered the conference room. It appeared to have shrunk since yesterday: the ceiling seemed lower. The bus was still parked outside the window and a sense of unease engulfed her again, broadcasting her lack of confidence as clearly as sweaty palms.
‘Not as thirsty today, are we?’
Q had a different outfit today, a T-shirt instead of the Hawaiian shirt, khakis instead of jeans. Anne sat down and folded her hands, trying to appear calm and collected.
The police officer switched on the tape recorder and proceeded to rattle off: ‘Interview with Snapphane, Anne, held by Lieutenant Q at Yxtaholm castle in the conference room of the New Wing on Saturday, 23 June at 12:55. Anne Snapphane is being interviewed with regard to the murder of Michelle Carlsson. This is interview number three.’
‘People are going home,’ Anne said as soon as he was finished.
‘I would like to continue where we left off yesterday,’ Q said and leafed through some papers.
‘Why don’t I get to leave? Why do I have to stay here? Am I a suspect?’
‘If you answer my questions in the order that I ask them, you might get to go home too, at some point.’
‘Do you really have the right to detain me here?’
Anne Snapphane was unable to control her voice – it went revealingly shrill.
‘Let’s get back to the run-in at the Stables …’
She jumped up, her chair scraping the wooden floor.
‘What would happen if I walked out right now? What would you say? If I simply marched out the door, could you keep me here? Could you?’
Q remained expressionless.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘This isn’t funny. Now tell me what happened over at the Stables.’
Anne remained on her feet and screamed at the man.
‘I’ve already told you that!’
‘That’s right, you have,’ the policeman said. ‘Only there’s a catch. I think you lied.’
She stared at him. Sensing that her armpits were drenched in sweat, she held her arms stiffly at her side as she sat down again.
‘I believe you are withholding vital details,’ Q said. ‘I’m not going to allow you to go until you tell me the truth. If that means I have to arrest you, I will.’
She forced herself to glare at him.
‘You’re bluffing.’
He shrugged, got up and called out into the corridor:
‘Could you ask Karin to come in here?’
Panic spread throughout Anne’s body, an icy sensation radiating from slightly below her navel.
‘Karin?’ she said. ‘Who’s Karin?’
‘She’s the DA,’ Q told her. ‘She’s up at the castle right now.’
‘No!’ Anne Snapphane cried, getting up and taking a couple of steps towards the door in confusion. ‘Christ, I’ve got to go home. There’s Miranda, my little girl, she’s only two and I can’t …’
She remained frozen in place, panic drilling a hole in her gut, feeling again as though she was going to pass out. Q waited for her to calm down, his arms folded across his chest, his face expressionless.
‘All right,’ she whispered and returned to her seat, trembling. ‘What would you like to know?’
> Completely deflated, she felt the ceiling closing in on her.
Q walked slowly around the table and sat down again.
‘The Stables,’ was all he said.
She kept her eyes shut for a few seconds, and breathed with her mouth open.
‘Like I already told you, the fight was in full swing by the time I got there.’
‘And who were the people involved?’
‘Michelle and Mariana. They were both pretty wasted and they were screaming at each other when I came in.’
‘What were they fighting about?’
‘It had started over something to do with John Essex. As far as I could tell, Michelle had got it on with him, and that freaked Mariana out. But I’m not positively certain – that’s just what I heard …’
‘Was John Essex in the room when you got there?’
Anne shook her head and the policeman sighed and pointed at the microphone.
‘No,’ she said and leaned closer to the mike. ‘No, he was in the kitchen, only I didn’t know at the time.’
‘Why did it bother Mariana that Michelle Carlsson had something going on with John Essex?’
Anne Snapphane snorted.
‘Everything Michelle did bothered Mariana. She would almost go as far as sabotaging the taping sessions just to ruin things for Michelle.’
‘How did Michelle feel about that?’
‘She detested Mariana and tried to get her replaced on the set. Only Zero has been cutting back on staff – they’ve been affected by the recession, you know. And Mariana’s terms of employment meant that she couldn’t be budged. We just had to lump it. And that hardly improved their relationship.’
‘What were they screaming about when you walked in?’
‘Something about a contract. Michelle was coming apart at the seams, her voice was really high-pitched and shrill and she was reeling around like she was drunk as a skunk …’
Anne paused.
‘What else?’
‘From the waist down she wasn’t wearing any clothes. It looked bizarre. She was reeling around the room half-naked, and …’
‘And?’
‘She was holding that revolver. It was pretty scary, even though we knew it wasn’t loaded.’
‘How did you know that?’
An ironclad door slammed shut somewhere deep inside Anne, sending tingling ripples to her nerves and fingertips, leaving her breathless.
‘I … Well … I don’t know.’
The policeman saw straight through her, his eyes fishlike, and he dropped the subject.
‘What were they fighting about?’
Anne regained her ability to breathe, and searched her memory while slowly rubbing her forehead.
‘It was something about a contract. I don’t know how the fight got started, it was already way out of hand by the time I arrived. Michelle wasn’t really all there. She was, how should I put this, incoherent. Went on about how Mariana should be happy now, how everyone should be pleased tonight since they’d all got what they wanted, that she was headed for the garbage disposal, stuff like that …’
‘Did you get the feeling that Michelle Carlsson was unbalanced?’
Anne cackled with laughter and then sighed.
‘That’s putting it mildly.’
‘I would like you to keep this to yourself,’ Q said, ‘but could Michelle have taken her own life?’
Anne Snapphane gasped and felt her eyes open wide, a sensation followed by a wave of relief so strong she almost lost control of her bladder.
‘You’re asking could she have shot herself?’ she whispered.
The detective nodded.
Yes, Anne thought. She shot herself. It wasn’t one of us. She did it, her death was her own fault. It had nothing to do with us.
A second later realization hit her like a punch in the gut.
That would mean that we were even more to blame.
She shut her eyes in concentration. Could Michelle have taken her own life?
No.
She looked up at Q.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, someone else did it.’
Suddenly less sure, she asked:
‘Why do you ask? Did you find a letter?’
The police officer’s intense gaze nailed Anne to the backrest of her chair. Her body tensed and grew rigid.
‘Did you see anyone else handle the gun?’
The silence grew oppressive. Anne forced oxygen into her lungs, her terrified thoughts shooting through her mind like bolts of lightning.
‘Hmm,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know.’
Buying time.
‘Think about it.’
Somewhere a clock was ticking. Anne turned her head to locate the source of the noise without success.
‘We found your prints on the gun,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Could you explain that?’
Anne’s mind went absolutely blank. The blood drained from her heard and she felt the colour drain from her lips.
‘Here, have some water,’ Q said, pushing a glass in her direction.
Anne Snapphane tried to take it, but spilled it and gave up.
‘I didn’t do it,’ she whispered.
‘Then who did?’
She shook her head. Her throat felt like it was coated with shards of glass.
‘When did you handle the gun?’
‘In the lounge over by the South Wing.’
Each word tore at her throat.
‘Was that before or after the fight at the Stables?’
Anne closed her eyes and felt her tear canals start to burn.
‘After, I think.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to feel how heavy it was.’
As soon as she had said the words, she regretted it, the flimsiness of her explanation mocking her.
‘When did you see the gun for the last time, apart from in the bus, after the murder?’
The image bank of her corpus collosum was flooded with fuzzy pictures, the product of alcohol and fatigue, a photo album of blurry outlines and confused emotions.
‘On the table in the lounge,’ she said after a while.
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Fairly sure.’
‘What time could that have been?’
‘I don’t know. After the Stables. Maybe even after Mariana’s and Bambi’s argument about nudie pictures. Say, 2:30?’
She met Q’s gaze. It was cold and aloof.
‘And then what? Where did you go?’
Anne made an effort to remember.
‘I tried to get some sleep, but there was too much of a ruckus going on so I got up again.’
‘So, after three o’clock, you were in your room over in the South Wing?’
She searched her memory and nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s probably right.’ And her breathing returned to normal.
‘Then could you explain why you were observed in front of the bus at 3:15 a.m.?’
The room started reeling and Anne grabbed on to the table and tried to keep her voice steady.
‘What?’ she said. ‘Who saw me?’
‘Actually, several people did. Why would you go to the bus at three in the morning?’
Her head moved from side to side – no, no, no.
‘I don’t remember.’
The reply was like air being expelled.
‘Come on. Your memory’s been pretty good up to now.’
Frantically searching that memory Anne thought, dear Lord, what had she done? What had she said? Where had she been?
‘I … went for a swim?’
‘In the pouring rain? Come on, Anne Snapphane. If you’re going to lie, at least try to make it a good one.’
The detective’s words oozed contempt.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. She looked up and let the tears flow. Her voice broke, wavering and indistinct.
‘I don’t remember. You’ve got to believe me! I was pretty drunk, I must have gone the wr
ong way or something. I was going to go to the South Wing and I guess I wandered around some. I didn’t do it!’
The waiting left Annika hot and restless. The sunlight sliced pathways through the leaves and the air stood still. The sheep gathered around the journalists, smelling of wool and crap. She distanced herself from them all, the animals and her colleagues, strangely affected by the situation.
After Mariana and Bambi the parade of witnesses had ceased. The other journalists didn’t seem to mind. They chatted, leaning against walls and rocks.
Annika walked over to the Stables and tried the door. Locked. Then she sat down on the steps and took a few deep breaths, trying to find some freshness in the breeze. She hesitated momentarily, then picked up her cellphone again. ‘You have … no messages.’ She swallowed her disappointment. He didn’t have time to call, not with the kids and everything.
‘Did you ever meet her?’
Confused, she looked up and was blinded by the sun, so she put her hand up like a visor. It was Bosse, the reporter who worked for Sweden’s other major tabloid.
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, realizing that she wasn’t sure.
She let her hand drop and chewed on the inside of one cheek. Didn’t she run into Michelle Carlsson once, on a job, or was it something Anne Snapphane had mentioned, or even something she’d seen on TV?
‘No,’ Annika said at last to the dark silhouette. ‘I don’t think so. But I do know Anne Snapphane, one of her associates, and I’ve been to Zero’s offices now and then. It feels like I know her.’
Bosse sighed, sat down next to her without waiting for an invitation and stretched out his legs.
‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I’ve met Karin Bellhorn a few times at dinners and events like that, and she’s told me stuff about Michelle. Like how hard it was for her to deal with her success. How it wore her down. How unbalanced she could be, touchy and weepy. How euphoric she would get when the camera was rolling or if she got some attention.’
‘It’s kind of sad,’ Annika said. ‘That success is such a big deal.’
The other paper’s reporter picked up a small stick and traced figures in the dust on the stone steps.
‘We feel the same way, you know. We love it when celebrities do good. It’s almost as nice as when they fail.’
‘Someone’s coming,’ Annika said.
They got up, and as if they had been given a signal the photographers shouldered their cameras and sharpened their gazes while Annika and Bosse felt for their pads and pens. Stefan Axelsson was tall, rangy and blond, and the stubble on his face was peppered with grey. Cautiously, Annika approached the technical director along with the rest of the group. When no one else made an attempt to communicate – everyone just stood there staring at him – she stepped up, introduced herself, and asked an innocuous question.
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