Lifetime by Liza Marklund Read Free Book Online

Hägersten; the Renault belonged to a Mariana von Berlitz, Stockholm; a Carl Wennergren owned the BMW; and the Saab belonged to a Stefan Axelsson, who lived in Tullinge.
    Purposely disregarding the fact that hundreds of kronor would be racked up on her cellphone bill, Annika decided to check out the owners’ phone numbers.
    ‘There is no Barbro Rosenberg living in Solna, only a Bambi Rosenberg with an unlisted number,’ the operator, who introduced herself as Linda, drawled.
    The actress, Annika wrote on her pad.
    Linda had no listing for a Hannah Persson in Katrineholm.
    ‘Lots of people only have a cellphone without a subscription nowadays,’ she told Annika. ‘And then they wouldn’t be on our records.’
    Build&Create had scads of numbers and Annika wrote them all down. The first number belonged to Sebastian Follin, a manager. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
    Karin Andersson Bellhorn had dumped her middle name in the phone book and was listed as a TV producer. Annika knew who she was: they had met a few times at the office where Anne Snapphane worked.
    Mariana von Berlitz had an unlisted number, but Annika knew who she was too. Six years ago, they had shared a desk at Kvällspressen and had had a falling-out about who was expected to clean up. Mariana was Carl Wennergren’s girlfriend. And Stefan Axelsson was listed as a technical director.
    Annika made a quick calculation. She was fairly sure of seven people, if the manager guy was the right one. And she knew that Anne Snapphane was there. That made eight. Anne had travelled by train, and Annika guessed that Barbara Hanson had done the same. Nine. Who were the others? The Range Rover belonged to TV Plus, so it must be a bigwig’s company car, maybe it even belonged to the head honcho himself. Anne Snapphane only ever referred to him as the Highlander.
    ‘Because he thinks he’s immortal and invincible,’ Anne had explained.
    Who could the other two be?
    Annika gazed out over the park. Soaking wet and hungry, a flock of sheep bleated on the opposite side of the avenue. Out on the island, a couple of police officers guarded the bridge. The broadcast bus was hidden by the buildings.
    The bus, she thought. Somebody had to be in charge of the bus, some technical wiz. Eleven.
    She couldn’t figure out who number twelve could be. It was time to make contact.
    She picked up her phone and dialled Anne Snapphane’s number. It was busy.
    ‘Annika, Annika Bengtzon . . . Annika Bengtzon!’
    The voice came from the direction of the cars over by the Garden Wing. She turned, peering through the rain to make out who it was.
    It was Pia Lakkinen, one of her former associates at Katrineholms-Kuriren. The reporter had just got out of her car. Pia pulled up the hood of her raincoat and hurried over to Annika.
    ‘It’s been ages!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s great to see you.’
    They shook hands and Annika tried to smile. But she didn’t share Pia’s enthusiasm. As a rule she disliked overly friendly approaches by fellow reporters when they were at the scene of a murder, and the fact that they had worked on the same paper at one time made things worse. Annika had quit her job in order to work for Kvällspressen in Stockholm, and many of her associates at Katrineholms-Kuriren had seen this as her passing judgement on their paper.
    ‘Well, how are things at KK ?’ Annika asked.
    Pia sighed theatrically.
    ‘Oh, it’s the same old grind. Lousy planning, no leadership, all that . . . and now all this rain too. Has it let up at all, you think?’
    Annika searched for the right words, a platform to stand on, to no avail. The other reporter didn’t notice Annika’s uneasiness, she was adrift herself and rattled away nervously.
    ‘And now this,’ Pia said, ‘right in the middle of the holidays. A murder, here in Flen. It’s totally unreal – you never expect something like a killing to happen in a quiet place like this . . .’
    Annika looked around her, searching for