‘Leave me alone,’ he snapped, his eyes red and his forehead shiny. ‘Leave her alone.’
‘That was Axelsson, wasn’t it?’ Bosse asked.
‘He’s reputed to be quite a bastard,’ Annika replied as the man drove off in his old Saab. ‘But he’s brilliant at his job.’
The other reporter nodded.
The dust on the road had barely settled before the next witness came sailing down the hill. Barbara Hanson needed no introduction. She kissed Bertil Strand on both cheeks and proclaimed in a loud voice that her bed had been uncomfortable, that the policemen were handsome, and that the weather had been frightful.
‘Oh my God,’ Bosse exclaimed. ‘Is she always like that?’
Annika simply rolled her eyes.
A minute later, Carl Wennergren appeared. Annika could see him coming from a distance.
‘Don’t waste your breath on him,’ she whispered to Bosse. ‘I tried to talk to him yesterday, but he wouldn’t tell me anything, even though we sit more or less next to each other in the newsroom.’
‘Yesterday?’ the reporter said in surprise. ‘How did you manage to do that?’
She lifted her fingertip to her lips and smiled. Carl Wennergren got into his BMW and drove off without anyone trying to talk to him.
‘Here comes the next one,’ Bosse said, and pointed.
Even at that distance, Annika could recognize the CEO of TV Plus in spite of the fact that she’d never actually met him. He liked to be seen at parties with the in crowd and he promoted his own channel in commercials. Highlander, the immortal one.
He swiftly climbed over the tape; his hair was glossy and black, his suit was impeccable and he wasn’t carrying any luggage. Annika joined the other reporters and approached him, intuitively anticipating an unpleasant situation.
The man tried to appear confident and relaxed, but his smile didn’t quite reach his soul. Under his tan he was pale, and a lack of sleep had carved sharp lines around his eyes.
‘I would like to start by saying that this is a tragedy for TV Plus,’ he said without waiting for a question.
The small assembly of reporters and photographers gathered around him in silence, an impromptu press conference accompanied by bleating sheep.
‘Naturally, this terrible loss will have an impact on our entire network. Michelle Carlsson was one of our most esteemed associates,’ Highlander said as he fingered a creased piece of paper in one hand.
‘On a personal note,’ he continued, ‘I would like to add that Michelle was a very dear friend, a very good friend, one whom I appreciated for her great … warmth, and her considerable … professional expertise.’
He faltered, paused and glanced quickly at his notes for a few seconds. Lowering the paper again, he looked up and wet his lips before speaking.
‘We here at TV Plus will honour and cherish Michelle’s memory,’ he continued in a voice aimed at the birds and the treetops. ‘History will prove that she was one of the great personalities of our time. Her shows will live on, a legacy to future generations of viewers and TV associates. This is a legacy that we here at TV Plus aim to hold in trust, and I promise you that we take this responsibility seriously.’
‘Jesus,’ Bosse whispered to Annika. ‘Next he’ll be sprouting wings.’
She bit her lip. The combined effect of the TV executive’s pompous words and perfumed exterior made her want to giggle.
‘What will happen to the shows you taped this week?’ the woman from the national broadcasting service asked.
‘Here’s someone who’s got her priorities straight,’ the reporter for the competition said, leaning close to Annika. ‘First things first – find out what happens to the shows.’
Suppressed laughter welled up inside Annika. She turned around and tried to hide it by covering her mouth with her hands. Highlander, who had started to answer a question, was distracted and stared in her direction.
‘Is … What’s so amusing?’ he asked, his eyes darting around the crowd.
‘’I’m sorry,’ Annika replied, struggling to control herself. ‘I swallowed my gum.’
The truly pitiful lie caused Bosse to start shaking with silent laughter himself. He turned and walked away from the group. Annika looked up at the treetops, taking in the bright, clear colours. None of this was actually happening; it was all a show, a bad reality-TV show.
‘This series represents our TV Plus summer special,’ Highlander said, his suit standing out like a silvery silhouette against the water. ‘It was intended to give us an edge in the competition with the terrestrial networks, as well as with regard to the other satellite TV networks.’
‘Will you be airing the shows, and if so, when?’ the persistent female broadcaster continued.
Highlander wiped away a small moustache of perspiration on his upper lip.
‘At the present time I’m unable to give you a reply,’ he said. ‘Naturally, I’ll have to confer with the head office over in London first, and delineate our policy for the commemoration of Michelle’s memory. The airing of Summer Frolic at the Castle is a part of our strategy and as such must be given due consideration.’
The man glanced down again, fingering his notes. His whole face had now broken out in a sweat, causing his waxed bangs to wilt. Suddenly Annika saw the man as he truly was, deathly pale and under strain, on the verge of tears.
‘How are you holding up?’ she heard herself ask.
He glanced up without looking at anyone in particular.
‘The past few days have been rough,’ he said. ‘Really rough. The entire future of the network hangs in the balance.’
‘Actually, I meant you personally,’ Annika said. ‘What’s your reaction to the fact that your associate was murdered while she was taping a show for you?’
Highlander crumpled up his notes into a ball, shoved it into his pocket and strode off towards the car. The photographers were hot on his heels, causing the man to break into a near-run. Annika remained where she was and saw him get into his huge vehicle and sit there for a while, slumped over the wheel.
‘If you think he felt lousy, check this guy out,’ Bosse said and pointed over her shoulder.
A short and rather corpulent man with thinning hair was on his way down the hill. His mouth was slack, the lips chapped and shiny, and he moved jerkily, almost reeling. Annika could sense his bottomless despair and desperation.
‘Poor soul,’ the reporter next to her said.
Sebastian Follin had clipped on dark sunshades over his regular glasses with metallic frames. His complexion was dull and grey, haggard-looking. They saw him make his way slowly towards the parking lot, somehow seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. The journalists left him alone until he reached his car. The national broadcasting team was the first to address him. He didn’t catch the question and looked around in confusion, watching the reporters and photographers with dread.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m sure you realize that we will be writing about Michelle’s death in tomorrow’s papers,’ Annika said as she walked up to the man, took his hand and introduced herself. His hand was limp, cold and moist.
‘I just can’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I can’t get it into my head that she’s gone.’
‘You worked with Michelle for many years, didn’t you?’
Annika sensed how the other journalists were concentrating, how they were waiting expectantly for the words to issue from the man’s trembling lips.
‘She was mine,’ Follin said. ‘My very first client. We were a team. I made her what she was.’
Annika nodded and tried to catch the manager’s eye behind the opaqueness of his glasses, sensing his gaze drifting off towards the lake.
‘How did you meet her?’
Sebastian Follin took a few rapid breaths, still avoiding her gaze.
‘It was at the National Road Association,’ he said. ‘Their public relations department. In Växjö. I was in charge there
and we needed someone to present …’
He stopped talking and some saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. Annika felt a tingling of uneasiness running up and down her spine.
‘So you hired her to do a presentation?’
Follin quickly bowed his head and wiped his chin with amazing speed. Then he clasped his briefcase more firmly.
‘She was incredible,’ he said. ‘It was the best press conference we ever had. She was funny, smart, beautiful – everyone listened when she spoke. It was magic’
He nodded to confirm his words.
‘It was magic. Afterwards I asked her how come she was so good, and she just laughed. That was the way she was. She was a natural. I used her for everything we did after that.’
He swallowed.
‘Where did you find her?’ Annika asked.
‘She was working as a guide on the tourist train in Gränna, and she was a receptionist at Gyllene Uttern. That was … five years ago.’
‘You’ve been around her for a long time,’ Annika said.
‘The whole time,’ Follin said, looking at her for the first time. She could detect small pale blue eyes behind the dark lenses.
‘Did you have contacts in the TV business?’
‘My brother’s wife worked at Zero. I negotiated her first contract as a host for a TV show. She was a star in no time at all.’
Annika nodded, realizing that it was true.
‘What other clients do you represent?’ the woman from the national broadcasting service asked.
Sebastian Follin was startled and jerked his head in her direction.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘You are a manager, aren’t you? Do you only represent TV personalities, or do you have other clients as well?’
The man’s expression hardened, the lines around his mouth tightening.
‘What network do you represent?’ he asked the woman, his voice now shrill.
She mentioned the name of the national news show.
‘I refuse to work with you people,’ he said, abruptly turning away and unlocking the door to his sporty American car.
He almost drove into the wall as he roared away from the parking lot.
Torstensson’s complexion was both pale and blotchy as he walked into the newsroom. He was no longer clad in his traditional folk costume; he’d changed into a pair of warm-up pants and a turtleneck shirt. As always, he looked a bit lost among the computers and news bills, his eyes darting nervously around the newsroom and its staff. Schyman caught sight of him through the glass partition, noted how weak and confused the man seemed and felt a wave of compassion and misgivings.
I can’t do this, he thought. You can’t treat people like this.
Then he looked at the newsroom staff: editors and reporters, photographers and photo editors, rewrite people and proof-readers, news-desk editors and night-shift editors. He doubted whether Torstensson knew who they were or what they did.
The editor-in-chief caught sight of him through the glass and approached his corner office, his teeth gritted.
‘I demand an explanation,’ he said. ‘What are you up to?’
Schyman left his desk, walked past the editor-in-chief and closed the glass door. Torstensson looked stooped in his baggy leisure clothes, much smaller than in the bulky suits he usually wore.
‘I’m trying to get this paper on track,’ Schyman replied.
He stood with his back to the door, forcing the other man to face the newsroom and the curious glances of his associates as they whispered to each other.
‘What’s the point of playing games with the chairman of the board? He thought I was the one who okayed the use of the names and pictures of those people.’
The editor-in-chief’s lips were white and dry. He spoke with difficulty, as if talking was painful.
Schyman looked at the man for a few seconds, assessing his will to fight.
‘You should have been the one to okay it,’ Schyman said. ‘Isn’t that right? Only we couldn’t get hold of you all day yesterday, even though we called every number we had. You didn’t contact the office either, despite the fact that we left you a dozen or so messages. Did you check out the news at all yesterday?’
‘I had the day off,’ Torstensson said, his ear lobes burning.
The managing editor stared at his superior with astonishment. The man’s incompetence and inability to shoulder responsibility knew no bounds.
‘This is unacceptable,’ Anders Schyman said. ‘The staff of this paper needs to know that they can depend on their management when the going gets tough. We need to be consistent on all levels when it comes to the issues.’
Torstensson wet his lips uncertainly.
‘What do you mean?’
Anders Schyman walked past the editor-in-chief and sat down at his desk again.
‘Barbara Hanson was at Yxtaholm when Michelle Carlsson taped her very last shows,’ he said, looking intently at his boss. ‘Could you please explain why she was there?’
A furrow appeared between Torstensson’s eyebrows and he folded his arms as he turned to face the managing editor’s desk.
‘She asked to cover the event. It is her job, you know.’
Anders Schyman forced himself to not move a muscle and just look at the man.
‘I expressly ordered Barbara Hanson to stop harassing this particular journalist. And you know that.’
‘She wasn’t harassing anyone,’ Torstensson countered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘She wrote about a public figure, and celebrities just have to deal with that sort of thing.’
‘There are limits, though,’ Schyman said. ‘And Barbara passed them quite a long time ago.’
‘I don’t agree,’ the editor-in-chief said.
Anders Schyman was overcome by a sudden wave of intense weariness, the same feeling of draining exhaustion that had hit him several times during the past few days.
I don’t have the strength, he thought. I won’t even bother.
‘Barbara Hanson is one of this paper’s most prominent and esteemed reporters,’ Torstensson said. ‘She’s known for her bold and feisty celebrity profiles, they’re a distinctive feature––’
‘Don’t you try to teach me what this paper stands for,’ Schyman interrupted the man, suddenly blazing with rage. ‘Barbara Hanson is a lazy, spoiled and hard-drinking member of the family that owns this paper, and that’s why you let her behave any way she damn well pleases.’
The editor-in-chief gasped. What little blood he had left in his face drained down into his stomach.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he exclaimed.
‘Well, don’t we usually call a spade a spade when it comes to our other associates? You’ve called Hasse over at the sports department the Drunk Driver, and you’ve called Annika Bengtzon the Manslaughterer. Is Barbara Hanson more fragile than the others?’
‘I’m not going to listen to this,’ the editor-in-chief said tightly and spun around to face the door.
Anders Schyman got up.
‘Where are you going? Could you possibly leave a telephone number where we can reach you? You can drop it off at Tore Brand’s desk.’
He studied Torstensson’s stooped back under the thin cotton fabric of his shirt. The man’s spine protruded like a railroad track. His ribcage heaved with every breath as he paused. By the time he finally turned around, his face was convulsed with anger.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘I’m going to spend the night here, with the journalists.’
The managing editor looked into the other man’s eyes, trying to fathom their cloudy depths.
He’s going to fight, Schyman realized. He’s not going to let go. Did I really expect anything else?
‘You can go home now,’ Torstensson said as he opened the door.
‘I have some papers to go through,’ Schyman said.
‘You don’t have to do that tonight.’
‘Are you ordering me to
leave?’
Schyman sat down heavily, leaned back in his chair with his hands cradling the back of his head and regarded Torstensson without flinching. Without uttering a word, Torstensson closed the door behind him.
Karin Bellhorn kissed Annika’s competitor Bosse on both cheeks, holding his hands in hers, and then nodded to Annika herself.
‘Awful business, this,’ Bosse said.
The TV producer was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was gathered in a loose bun on the top of her head, secured by a purple plastic comb. A cardigan with pockets, a wrinkled blouse, wide slacks in an exotic print.
‘The worst thing of all,’ she said in a low voice, ‘is that it was in the air. These past few days have been terrible.’
‘Could you tell us more?’ Bosse asked and glanced over at Annika.
The producer pulled her purse out in front of her, rummaged around in it, and managed to locate a pair of sunglasses and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. She put on the shades and, with the aid of Bosse’s lighter, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply as she looked out over the lake.
‘It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?’ she said, hardly exhaling a trace of smoke. It was as if it had been absorbed by her lung tissue.
Annika and Bosse nodded. It really was a beautiful place. A light breeze had started to blow, making the leaves of the treetops flutter gently so that the sunbeams filtering through the foliage danced. Little reflections skimmed the surface of Lake Långsjön and the sheep bleated.
‘I felt so incredibly sorry for Michelle,’ Karin Bellhorn said slowly, her gaze trained on the opposite shore. ‘She had never been as stressed out as she was during this series.’
‘Have you worked with Michelle for a long time?’ Annika asked, her mouth slightly dry. The TV producer had a personality that commanded respect.
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