‘You’re hung up on the petty details,’ he said. ‘The major issue isn’t the church or the party.’
Annika looked out of the window and studied the courtyard with its bicycle stand and its garbage cans.
‘In any case, that’s the way things stand,’ she said.
She pulled her hand away from his.
‘Hello? Alide?’
Bambi listened to the fuzzy connection, sensing someone on the other end who seemed much further away than they actually were. A faint moaning sound emerged from the static that didn’t bode well.
‘Alide, how are you? Were you asleep?’
Something that might have been a sob floated west across the Baltic Sea, following the Latvian coast, passing Ösel, crossing to Gotska Sandön, landing in Sweden on the tiny distant island of Landsort and travelling along the telephone lines all the way to Solna.
‘No,’ the Latvian woman said. ‘I was awake.’
Bambi Rosenberg sighed in relief. It sounded like Alide was sober. Possibly hung-over, but still in the possession of her faculties.
‘Everything’s been taken care of,’ she said. ‘I saw the lawyers yesterday, and we went through all the papers and things like that.’
The woman didn’t make any comment and Bambi thought she could detect the sound of crying in the silence. She sank down on the dresser in the hallway, and looked up at the ceiling to keep her own tears in check.
‘Don’t be sad,’ she said in a choked-up voice. ‘Listen to me, Alide, we’ve got to be strong now.’
‘I miss her,’ the woman said in her heavily accented English. ‘I’ve missed her all my life, and now it’s too late.’
Bambi closed her eyes and surrendered, letting the tears course down her cheeks.
‘I know,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Michelle missed you, too. But she did forgive you, Alide, she did. You know that.’
A deep sigh came over the phone, one that might even have held a trace of relief. Bambi stared at the dark wallpaper, content with her half-truth. Michelle had forgiven her mother, but she had never been able to deal with the sorrow caused by her deceit.
‘What do the police say? Have they arrested anyone?’
Bambi Rosenberg shook her head at the wall.
‘No. I don’t know what’s taking them so long.’
‘Have you heard anything about the funeral?’
‘No date has been set yet. It will take a few more weeks. The network is conducting a memorial service today – I’ll tape it so that you can watch it when you get here.’
‘I don’t want to stay at Michelle’s place,’ the woman said in a whisper that was barely audible over the buzz of the connection.
The actress wiped her face with the back of her left hand.
‘You can stay here,’ she said. ‘You know that. Just tell me when you’ll be arriving and I’ll pick you up at the boat terminal.’
They shared a silent moment of bonding across the sea.
‘Do you know what’s going to happen?’ Michelle Carlsson’s mother asked after a while. ‘With the allowance, I mean?’
‘You won’t be needing one,’ Bambi replied. ‘She didn’t have a will. You inherit everything. The apartment, the business and all the rights, the furniture and the jewellery. You’re her sole heir.’
Alide’s voice was very weary as she said:
‘Michelle wouldn’t have liked that,’ she said. ‘I don’t deserve it.’
‘Oh, yes, you do,’ Bambi said, selecting the appropriate reassuring tone of voice from her repertoire. ‘Michelle wanted you to be all right, you know that. She wouldn’t have sent you that allowance if she didn’t. She wanted you to be comfortable. The only reason she doled money out to you like that was so that you wouldn’t blow it all at once. You know how things used to be …’
‘You should have some of it,’ Alide Carlsson declared.
Bambi Rosenberg’s face flushed and she was glad no one could see her.
‘I haven’t paid back the loan for my breast implants yet,’ she said. ‘I have no claim on her estate.’
‘You took care of the things I should have done,’ Michelle’s mother said. ‘I’m going to make sure you get what’s coming to you. Trust me.’
Her words conjured up a dizzying sense of déjà vu, making Bambi Rosenberg start to cry again.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. She had heard those kinds of promise before and knew that she would be let down. ‘You’re not my mother, Alide, you don’t have to do anything for me. But call me when you get here and we’ll get together.’
After she had hung up, Bambi Rosenberg sank to the floor, curled up in the foetal position and fell asleep.
Mehmed had seated Torstensson on his executive chair with the painting by Anders Zorn in the background. Schyman stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene, trying to figure out the layout by studying the equipment. He unobtrusively observed the people at work, busy with cords, cables, headsets, microphones, and sheets of paper for balancing whiteness. Two cameramen, a sound engineer and the host; a fair-sized operation.
One camera was stationary and focused on the editor-in-chief while the other was mobile and would follow Mehmed. This meant that they expected Torstensson to sit still while Mehmed would be able to move around. Okay.
The editor-in-chief was already sweating under the spotlights. They weren’t really necessary, but their hot glare could certainly come in handy when you were putting someone on the spot – so to speak. Torstensson fidgeted a great deal, running his hands through his hair, bumping up against the body mike he was wearing on the lapel of his jacket and clearing his throat.
Schyman understood more or less what would take place. Mehmed’s problem would be to get Torstensson to admit to selling his holdings on 19 July, the day before the disastrous second-quarter report was made public. This meant that he would probably focus on something else at first, something he already knew, such as when Torstensson was made privy to this confidential information, and in what circumstances. The date of the transaction would be obvious, and if the editor-in-chief didn’t stay on his toes, he would get all tangled up in a web of excuses.
‘When it comes to journalistic ethics, I’m not the only …’ Torstensson started to say, but no one took any notice of him.
Anders Schyman saw that the technical end was complete. He shut the door and stood next to one of the cameramen.
‘All right,’ Mehmed Izol said. ‘Shall we get moving?’
The host sat on a chair in the middle of the room, about a metre away from the subject of his interview, crossed his legs, and let his hands rest calmly in his lap.
A thought flashed through Schyman’s mind: He is so good.
‘Editor-in-chief Torstensson,’ Mehmed began. ‘Could you please tell me the stance you take at Kvällspressen on economic crime?’
Torstensson settled back in his chair and cleared his throat. On a small monitor by the cameraman’s feet, Schyman saw how the ample nude in the Zorn painting floated right above the editor-in-chief’s left ear.
‘Crime is a blot on society in every democracy,’ Torstensson replied. ‘One of the most important obligations of the press is to investigate criminals at all levels of society and expose them.’
Oh, really? Schyman thought. And here I thought that’s what the police are supposed to do.
He folded his arms across his chest and forced his pulse to calm down. If anyone could pull this off, it would be Mehmed.
The wall of bags in Anne’s editing room had possibly shrunk a smidgen.
‘Come on in and listen to what I found,’ Anne Snapphane said on the other side of the wall.
Annika walked around the plastic bags, silent and somewhat apprehensive. Worry made her feel weak and shaky.
‘At first I thought it was just some old junk, since there aren’t any pictures,’ Anne explained as she turned up the volume.
‘Now, listen to this.’
Annika stood behind her fri
end and breathed in the electronically desiccated air, the dust making her sneeze. Then she listened to a tape played on an ordinary VHS player at Anne’s feet. There was a lot of static and background noise, but somewhere in there you could hear panting and moaning.
‘What’s this?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Anne Snapphane replied, rooting around in the depths of a plastic bag standing next to her.
‘Is it only a sound recording?’ Annika asked.
‘Yup. I’ve been listening to it for about fifteen minutes. Sounds like people screwing.’
Anne Snapphane sat up again, her face red from the exertion of bending over, and held up a bunch of tapes.
‘It seems to belong to the Summer Frolic at the Castle sessions, probably from the last night.’
She put in a new tape on one of the other machines, one of the beta players. The monitor in front of her flickered and then displayed the rain-drenched exterior of Yxtaholm. The lovemaking soundtrack was rolling in the background while cameras were balancing whiteness and sound was being tested on the beta.
‘Listen,’ Annika said. ‘There’s something I’ve got to ask you.’
‘What?’ Anne said as she set the beta on fast-forward.
Annika swallowed and looked down on the back of her friend’s head, her tousled hair.
‘Is it true that Michelle made sure you got the wrong time for that screen test a while back?’
Anne Snapphane’s back went rigid and her shoulders hunched up. She turned around and stared at Annika, gaping.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Is it true? Did she sabotage your audition?’
For a few seconds, Anne just stared at her. Then she turned abruptly and put a new tape in the beta player. The moans and groans continued to roll at her feet.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Karin Bellhorn claims that’s what happened. I have no idea why she would lie about something like that.’
Anne lowered the slip she was holding and stared out over the plastic bags.
‘On the other hand, I don’t know why she never told me this before.’
She looked over her shoulder at Annika.
‘So I really don’t know,’ she said. ‘Why are you asking me this?’
The question hovered over their heads.
‘Is it true that you … threatened to strangle Michelle when you heard what she’d done?’ Annika asked, her voice brittle.
Anne’s own voice was wary as she challenged her friend.
‘Right, so you’re wondering if I killed her?’
She turned around again and calmly met Annika’s gaze.
Annika swallowed audibly.
‘No, that’s not it, it’s just that you didn’t tell me this yourself. It felt weird hearing about it from someone else, that’s all.’
Anne looked down at her hands.
‘You see, I’d forgotten all about it at first,’ she said. ‘Then, later on, I guess I felt ashamed.’
She looked up at Annika again.
‘Almost every single one of us wanted to kill Michelle at some point during the evening.’
They looked at each other and Annika knew it was the truth. The tense silence between them was filled with the moans from the tape, and both Annika and Anne were startled when the sounds suddenly ceased. There was a whooshing sound as if an unexpected breeze had blown in and a man’s voice filled the room.
‘Did someone come in?’
The faint whooshing continued, accompanied by static.
‘No, no one, come on …’
The sounds of sex returned: whispers, laughter, panting and moaning.
‘Have they talked before this?’ Annika asked, surprised.
Anne Snapphane shook her head, looking somewhat paler.
‘Could it be Michelle and John Essex?’ Annika asked.
Anne hesitated and then nodded.
‘At the beginning of the tape there was a lot of intercom chatter – you know, what they say in the control room, like five seconds to go, ready, camera one, cue theme song, start video number two … Michelle introduced John, so this is the right evening.’
‘Who recorded this?’
Anne Snapphane’s breath was coming out in puffs and she shook her head.
‘I have no idea. It was in that jumble of reference VHS tapes, but it isn’t something we need for the show.’
The couple on the tape continued to moan and carry on. Annika stood there and listened to the sounds, and after a minute or two Anne put the tape in fast-forward mode, turning the sound into cartoon chatter, speed-fucking. Annika swallowed, her pulse beating hard at the base of her throat.
‘We missed some talk,’ Anne Snapphane said and rewound the tape.
‘How’s it going?’
Karin Bellhorn’s face peered through the stack of bags.
Anne switched off the sex recording. The producer’s eyebrows were raised as if she was standing on tiptoe. The expression in her eyes turned cold when she caught sight of Annika.
‘What are you doing here?’
Annika tried to smile.
‘The memorial service,’ she said. ‘I thought I might …’
But Karin Bellhorn had already lost interest in her.
‘Have you located all the material for 101 and 102 yet?’
‘More or less,’ Anne replied, diving back down in the bag again. ‘All the time codes are noted on the tapes I’ve found, and as far as I can see, they’re ready for the rough-cut assembly.’
‘Could you do it?’ the producer asked, her voice roughened by stress and smoking. ‘Could you make an edit-decision list, list the in and out codes, and have it on my desk before you leave today?’
Annika saw Anne grit her teeth.
‘There’s a lot left to––’
‘It doesn’t matter, you can do that next week. You know the schedule, so put together the tapes we need to make a final cut. That’s great.’
Karin Bellhorn turned and left.
‘That bitch!’ Anne hissed as the heavy footfall of the producer faded down the hall. Tears of rage were in her eyes. ‘I’ll be stuck here for the rest of the summer. Well, I can forget about going to any damn memorial service, that’s for sure.’
Annika fidgeted uncomfortably, knowing that she was in the way.
‘Listen,’ she said, picking up her bag. ‘I’ll go and take a walk.’
Anne Snapphane bent down and removed the sex tape.
‘It’s so fucking unfair,’ she said. ‘This company treats me like a lousy …’
She wiped away the wetness on her face.
‘Take this,’ she said, handing the tape to Annika. ‘Go and ask Gunnar what it is, who recorded it, and why.’
Annika took the tape, stuffed it into her bag and wriggled past the monitors.
Thomas recognized the footfall approaching on the thick carpet, simultaneously springy and heavy. He yanked out his top desk drawer and tossed some reports on his desk, assessed the distance of the steps and counted down: three seconds, two, one …
‘Could you please come to the section supervisor’s office for a minute?’
He looked up, surprised and busy.
The secretary was leaning against the doorway on one hand, a slightly pained expression on her face due to her uncomfortable insoles.
Thomas smiled.
‘Of course.’
He picked up the reports, rearranged two of them, put them in the drawer and locked it. Then he followed the secretary down the corridor, crossing the lobby, passing the coffee lounge and reaching the corner office.
‘Coffee?’ she asked as she opened the door.
‘Yes, please,’ Thomas replied. ‘I’d like some milk in that.’
He swallowed and looked inside.
All five section supervisors were present. So was the head of negotiations and the director. They were all lined up on the other side of the conference table. Thomas’s hangover made his head throb and caused his movements to be somewha
t jerky. He walked straight up to the table, pulled out a chair, sat down and leaned back. There was a faint buzzing in his ears. The seven supervisors were wearing inscrutable expressions as they gazed at the table and the ceiling.
Thomas had a crystal-clear flash of insight: he wouldn’t be getting the job. They were going with the woman from the Federation of County Councils.
The head of negotiations, seated at the head of the table, said: ‘Thomas, we would like to start by saying that we are very satisfied with the work that you have done on the welfare project.’
Thomas swallowed and folded his hands in his lap, noticing that they were cold and damp.
‘As you know, we have explored various avenues with regard to regional planning and development in Sweden,’ the head of negotiations continued, glancing quickly around the room. ‘This has become a somewhat sensitive issue for us here at the Association of Local Authorities, since we have always claimed that the issue lacks merit. Our position has always been that there is no need to discuss regional development, only local development. Now the tide has turned: we need to appear to have had this issue on our agenda the whole time, and this needs to be taken care of quickly. I guess you could say it requires a balancing act.’
Thomas leaned forward, put his folded hands on the table and nodded appreciatively at the secretary as she brought him coffee.
‘That’s right,’ he said, realizing that he wouldn’t be able to drink his coffee anyway because his hands were shaking too badly. ‘I’ve given this matter some thought, and I have a suggestion as to how we can get around the problem.’
The five section supervisors looked at him for the first time since he had taken a seat at the table, surprised and curious expressions on their faces.
‘It’s vital that the Association forges ahead now that this issue has come to the forefront,’ Thomas continued. ‘We haven’t been overly enthusiastic about the initial phases of this project, the allocation of the regional parliament to the province of Skåne, and the merger of several counties into the region of Västra Götaland. But, on the other hand, we have not taken a critical stance either, so we’re still very much in the running, as I see it. However, it is imperative that we clarify our position and display well-defined objectives that will be effective throughout our operations, objectives which are also shored up politically.’
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