Prime Time

by Liza Marklund

  ‘I want Mommy. Where’s Mommy?’

  Thomas kept his gaze fixed on his magazine.

  ‘Kalle,’ he said. ‘Now that’s enough. We’ve checked under the bed several times and there isn’t anything there. Go. To. Bed.’

  The boy went away and shadows took over the doorway.

  Thomas rested his head in his hands, slumped a bit and listened for sounds in the hallway. Grey, cold silence. The landlord had turned off the central heating for the summer and the dampness from the rain had seeped into every single corner.

  Feeling irritated, he pushed away the magazine. This was what it was like living in a fucking apartment, you had no say, some lousy bureaucrat decided whether you were going to be hot or cold. At least if they had lived in a condo, then he could have been on the board and had some kind of influence, but not in this fucking rental.

  He downed the rest of his brandy, went over to the cabinet to get the bottle, and poured himself another one.

  Taking care of kids really drained the hell out of you.

  Thomas slumped against the counter and swirled the amber liquid in a sturdy Duralex glass.

  Maybe that’s why he hadn’t had the energy to work as much as he should have. Time and energy had gone elsewhere. If it weren’t for the kids, he might have already received a new assignment, he would have been immersed in the regional development of Sweden’s social services. They might have wanted to keep him on if he could have put more effort into his work.

  A noise from the hallway caught his attention. He got up, walked over to the door, opened it and turned on the light.

  The little boy was huddled in the far corner, shuddering with sobs, his eyes wide with reproach and exhaustion. The feelings that assaulted him were conflicting and obscure.

  ‘What’s this? Why are you in the hallway?’

  Thomas tried to keep his irritation in check and conjured up some patience. He went over to the three-year-old and kneeled down to his height. The boy turned away and face the wall.

  ‘Hey, Kalle, you’ve got to get some sleep, you’re going to nursery school tomorrow, you know that.’

  He put his hand on the rounded shoulder. The child pulled away, shuddering with sobs.

  ‘No! I want my mummy!’

  ‘Okay,’ Thomas said, picking up his son. ‘Now that’s enough.’

  The boy howled, his body rigid as a bow, and pulled his father’s hair.

  ‘Stop it!’ Thomas yelled back and yanked the boy’s hand away, scattering a flurry of hairs over his face.

  ‘No-o-o!’ the boy screamed as he kicked and twisted in his dad’s arms.

  A sudden draught of air made Thomas stop in his tracks. Annika was standing in the doorway, the bright light of the stairwell turning her shape into a dark silhouette.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked in a subdued voice as she shut the front door.

  ‘He won’t go to sleep!’ Thomas shouted, setting down the boy. Kalle let go of his teddy and his blanket and hurled himself at his mother. Thomas saw her drop her jacket and bag on the floor, get down on her knees and open her arms wide and let the boy tumble into her arms. She sat there, rocking him, murmuring words of comfort, and his crying subsided in a matter of minutes. A few seconds after that, the boy giggled, a golden chirping sound that he never shared with Thomas. Annika chimed in with a soft chuckle and gently smoothed his hair.

  ‘I’ll go with you, and you and I will tuck Teddy in,’ she said. ‘Now, where’s Teddy?’

  The boy pointed sulkily in his dad’s direction.

  Annika looked at Thomas steadily as she walked over to her son’s bedtime buddy and picked it up from the floor without averting her accusing gaze.

  ‘You’re spoiling him,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Annika said in a quietly dismissive voice.

  He gritted his teeth and flushed. But Annika was already gone; she was in the nursery, whispering and joking with the boy.

  Thomas returned to the kitchen, gulped down his brandy and poured himself some more.

  ‘Now that’s mature,’ Annika remarked as she walked in and saw him knock back the brandy. ‘That’s terrific. Booze it up, now that’s a sure-fire way to make things better.’

  She took a glass, filled it with tap water, and sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ Thomas asked.

  Annika drank without answering him.

  ‘So, you figured it was time to come home now, did you? Do you have any idea how rough it’s been taking care of everything around here? You’ve got a lot of nerve, leaving all this to me.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

  ‘Stop what?’ he said as he downed the rest of his brandy, choking on it. ‘Exactly what should I stop doing? Taking care of your kids? Your apartment? Your dirty laundry?’

  ‘It’s time you cleaned up your act,’ she said, walking right up to Thomas. ‘You have everything a person could ask for, and all you do is complain. Why don’t you stop wallowing in self-pity, for a change?’

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, way too loud. ‘Do you expect me to stop working and be a household drone? You might get what you want sooner than you think. I’m all washed up, in every way.’

  ‘Christ, you’re such a baby,’ Annika said, her eyes flashing with contempt. ‘We brought two kids into this world, and it’s our goddam obligation as parents to make sure that they grow up and have a reasonably good environment. Stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself just because you don’t live in your fancy old brick house by the sea any more. This is where you live now, so pull yourself together and make the best of it. For God’s sake, grow up!’

  Thomas shrank back, edging up against the counter.

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do,’ he said in an unsteady voice.

  She stepped up to him.

  ‘Well, who else is going to do it?’ she shouted. ‘You’re totally incapable of making decisions, for Christ’s sake. How the hell can you be in charge of a project? Everything is too much trouble. You’ve been so over-indulged, I swear you’re almost lazy!’

  He pushed her away and headed for the hallway.

  ‘I’m not going to listen to this,’ he said.

  ‘Great!’ Annika called out to his retreating form. ‘Do it, run away, go and find someone who will stroke that goddam supersized ego of yours’

  Thomas staggered out into the hallway and, with shaking hands, put on his boots and his raincoat.

  Then he slammed the door shut behind him.

  TUESDAY, 26 JUNE

  The newsroom was at rest, the morning light painting it a delicate shade of blue. The night desk pulsated like a living organism. Its human occupants had gone, but the room still echoed with the sound of chairs being pushed back, computers powering down, and pens rolling away and dropping to the floor.

  At this moment, the Knights of the Night Desk were probably sitting in the canteen two floors down, red-eyed and wired, trying to wash the excess adrenalin back down into the darkest recesses of their brains with beer and tea.

  The morning team sat further away, concentrated and silent. The next deadline was seventy-five minutes away, one and a half eternities away, all the time in the world.

  Anders Schyman took in the sight, tucking it away in his soul. It was a sight he might never see again.

  He went to his room, set his mug of coffee on his desk and tossed the first edition, the one sent out to the provinces, next to it. The newsprint was still slightly damp; a half-hour earlier it had rolled off the presses.

  Schyman was always in early, since only two possibilities were available to him: he could spend hours in traffic on his way in from Nacka, or he could risk a ticket or even losing his licence by cruising in the bus lanes.

  This particular morning was nothing like the usual grind. The air was charged with electricity, and he knew why.

  It was always easier to get up and go into battle.

  Peacet
ime was so much less inspiring.

  His body felt supple as he sat down, opened the paper and started to read it enthusiastically.

  The front page was terrific: a soulful close-up of John Essex, sad and devoid of make-up, taken at a hotel room in Berlin the day before. The pop icon had granted Berit Hamrin at Kvällspressen an exclusive interview about his friendship with the murdered TV star Michelle Carlsson, telling everything about the events of that fatal night and what it was like to be interrogated by the Swedish police. Fabulous stuff.

  The editorial dealt with a consumer issue, an article that had been produced as a front-page back-up during the holidays but which hadn’t been used due to the murder of Michelle Carlsson. An article somewhere else in the paper covered the story of hazardous medications: the entire list.

  The editorial demanded that drastic measures should be taken against the jaded giants of the pharmaceutical industry. The piece wasn’t very good.

  The managing editor rolled his shoulders restlessly and flipped through the pages of the paper.

  The Lifestyle section, on the other hand, contained an astute observation of the future of TV, a timely blow straight to the solar plexus, a clear-headed and talented analysis by one of the paper’s own reporters.

  The interview with the pop star was splashed across pages six and seven. The Entertainment section had felt that it should be featured in their section, but Spike had insisted on this location. Schyman smiled and brushed his hand lovingly over the words.

  ‘Michelle Carlsson was a wonderful woman,’ John Essex had told Kvällspressen’s representative.

  ‘We only met on that one occasion, but we bonded immediately. She had vitality, a sparkling intellect, and we got along very well. Her death is a great loss, both on a personal level and with regard to European TV audiences. She had so much left to give.’

  ‘Do you think your friendship would have continued?’ Berit Hamrin had asked Essex.

  ‘I would have enjoyed getting to know Michelle better. Very few people understand where I’m coming from right off the bat, but she did. We could get right down to the important issues, which was unusual. In addition to all that, she was incredibly lovely. I haven’t met many women who could hold a candle to her, and I’ve known quite a few.’

  The whole world would be wanting to copy the interview and buy the pictures. When Schyman asked Berit how she had pulled off such a feat she simply made a reference to The Godfather, something about making an offer that John Essex couldn’t refuse. He hadn’t pursued the subject.

  Schyman carefully sipped the hot coffee from the automat, turned the page and caught sight of Carl Wennergren striking a pose in front of Yxtaholm Castle. Kvällspressen’s reporter tells all about the tragedy that rocked Sweden’s entertainment community. Sjölander had written the piece, and, to be honest, you could tell that he had been affected by jet lag. The article wasn’t Pulitzer Prizewinning material, but at least now they had run the story.

  Schyman continued to leaf through the paper and got caught up in Annika Bengtzon’s piece about the neo-Nazi girl in Katrineholm living in a dismal basement. His restlessness was submerged for a while as he drank in the description of the young woman, her past and her views. He was transported to that fateful night at the castle and saw the shadows dance.

  Afterwards he blinked a few times before landing back in his own chair again.

  Good story, well written too; it had depth and perspective. It was sheer perfection.

  Then there was a review of the investigation, based on information from the police, a professor of criminology and one of the country’s most famous defence lawyers.

  Schyman learned that investigations of this kind generally consisted of a puzzle with two ingredients: the testimonies of the witnesses and forensic evidence. In this particular case, the different testimonies were contradictory and inconclusive, possibly due to the fact that the witnesses had been inebriated or overworked, or because they hoped to protect themselves from some consequence that had nothing to do with the murder. However, it appeared to be more and more certain that the assailant had been one of the twelve people who had spent the night at the castle. The police were confident that the solution could be found among the material they had obtained, but as yet there had been no arrests.

  The professor of criminology assured the public that the reason why the police were not very forthcoming with information was because they were hard at work. Time was always a major adversary in cases like this, which was why the police focused all their resources on the investigation. The defence lawyer explained the importance of thorough investigation prior to any arrest. Unless there was a confession, the indictment would be based on a chain of circumstantial evidence that would have to be supported by forensic evidence.

  The managing editor sighed. There was something about the slight vagueness of the wording that made him suspect that the solution to this crime was further off than anyone would like to admit.

  The next spread was dominated by the pharmaceuticals story. It was ambitiously conceived, with explicit diagrams and a great case study of a young mother who had died after taking over-the-counter pain relievers. The headline was an eye-catcher: Lethal Relief. It was almost like a jingle. Schyman smiled and didn’t notice Torstensson until he knocked on the glass door.

  ‘The TV team is here,’ the editor-in-chief said, his eyes a bit bleary this early in the morning.

  Anders Schyman forced himself to don his most neutral expression as he looked up from the paper.

  ‘So soon? I thought they were coming in at eight?’

  Torstensson rubbed his clean-shaven chin and straightened his tie.

  ‘They’re setting up cameras in my office.’

  ‘Have they mentioned what this is all about?’

  The editor-in-chief rocked on his heels impatiently.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘And I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible. I’m on vacation.’

  ‘You’re the one they wanted to interview,’ Schyman pointed out, aware that he was stirring things up. ‘Why do they want me to be present?’

  ‘If this has anything to do with journalistic ethics, I’m not going to cover for your mistakes,’ Torstensson said curtly. ‘You’ll have to field any questions about them yourself.’

  Then he turned and walked across the newsroom, his overly padded shoulders bobbing like floats on a lake.

  This isn’t about journalistic ethics, Anders Schyman thought as he rubbed his forehead, pushed in his chair and looked around.

  He walked out, leaving the door to his office open.

  Thomas held on to the door frame. The entire kitchen felt like it was pitching.

  ‘Is there any coffee?’

  ‘In the pot,’ Annika replied in a neutral tone of voice without looking up from the morning paper. She was holding a spoon in one hand and a napkin in the other and was sitting between the children. Kalle was eating a cheese sandwich and Ellen was covered with yogurt.

  Suddenly Annika realized that she was always up by the time Thomas walked in for breakfast, that the kids were dressed and fed, the coffee was ready and the papers were spread out on the table.

  Thomas staggered over to the cupboard and pulled out a mug, noticing that his hand was shaking.

  He wasn’t used to drinking alcohol on week nights.

  ‘When did you get in last night?’ she asked, still not looking at him.

  ‘Late,’ he said as he poured himself some coffee.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  She looked up and her eyes were filled with anger, disappointment and sadness.

  He licked off a used spoon and stirred his beverage.

  ‘I went to a pub not far from here.’

  She nodded and looked back down at her paper.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ she asked, indicating the chair on the opposite side of the table with her gaze.

  ‘Mommy, I’m don
e,’ Kalle piped up to her right.

  Ellen pushed away the spoon on her left.

  ‘All righty,’ Annika said. ‘Now go and wash your face and brush your teeth.’

  With an efficiency born of habit, she lifted Ellen out of the high chair, wiped the baby’s sticky hands and face and sat her down on the floor beside her. Ellen scooted after her brother using the special crawling style she’d developed, with one foot under her.

  ‘She’ll be walking soon,’ Thomas said in a doting daddy’s voice as he sat down.

  The morning light illuminated the woman sitting across the table, his woman, the ruthless rays revealing how tired she was.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated as he covered her hand with his.

  She let his hand remain there, but she avoided his pleading gaze.

  ‘You scared me the other night,’ Annika said.

  Thomas looked down at the table without making any comment.

  ‘It wasn’t only what you said,’ she continued. ‘It was my own reaction too. I keep running in circles, I’ve behaved the same way when I’m with you as I did with Sven …’

  ‘Stop it!’ he demanded. ‘Don’t compare me to him.’

  ‘I have to,’ Annika said, looking up, both her gaze and her voice steady. ‘Not because the two of you are alike, but because I haven’t changed. I still act the same way, I haven’t learned a damn thing. I’ve grovelled, I’ve danced attendance on you, and I’ve tried to make amends. It’s not your mother’s fault that she can’t accept me. I’m the one who’s felt sorry for you for choosing me. I don’t approve of myself.’

  She took a sip of her orange juice. Her hand was shaking.

  ‘But that’s over now,’ she said. ‘Either you choose me for real, or we forget the whole thing.’

  Thomas slumped, looking at her in shocked surprise.

  ‘What do you mean? What did you have in mind?’

  ‘We’ll get married,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a church wedding with all the trimmings, invite every last relative, all the friends we ever had, and rent a big hall, book a cover band and dance until dawn. A real wedding and a big picture in Katrineholms-Kuriren.’

  He sat up straight, then leaned back and rolled his eyes.