Lifetime by Liza Marklund Read Free Book Online Page B

doesn’t bother me to be here.’
    Pia’s face reflected disappointment and distrust.
    ‘Then you haven’t split up?’
    Annika’s smile faded.
    ‘Split up? Me and Thomas?’
    Pia laughed.
    ‘Well, you hear a lot of stuff, you know. Somebody said you’d split up, that he’d left you and the kids.’
    Annika turned pale.
    ‘Who said that?’
    Pia Lakkinen backed away, an embarrassed smile on her face. Annika interpreted her expression as derision and maliciousness.
    ‘You know how people talk in a small town like Katrineholm – I think it was a checker at the supermarket. But I have to run now and join my photographer, we’re supposed to write about the Midsummer celebrations in Bie and then interview the prime minister out at Harpsund too, so you take care now and give my love––’
    Annika turned away, the weight on her chest rotating a full 360 degrees. Her sense of loss returned and it mingled with the degradation she felt.
    In her home town no one was impressed by her work, her career and ambitions. They felt sorry for her.
    Gunnar Antonsson crawled out of bed in his stuffy room in the South Wing and glanced at his watch. No wonder he was hungry. He got his little French press coffee-maker, went over to the sink and rinsed out the old grounds. Then he filled it with fresh water that he then poured into the electric kettle. He dumped four scoops of coffee into the press. While the water hummed and whistled in the kettle, he looked out the window at the lacy crowns of the trees, the impenetrable greyness of the sky behind its cloak of rain.
    When the kettle had boiled, he poured the hot water into the press, pushed down the filter and poured some of the resulting beverage into his tooth glass. He looked at himself in the mirror above the washbasin while he took a sip. The coffee was scalding so he put down the glass, causing it to clink against the porcelain. Rubbing his chin he felt the rough stubble there. He could use a shave.
    Antonsson should have been on his way to Dalarna in the bus. They were supposed to broadcast a Midsummer special from the abandoned chalk mine, a huge opera concert including works by Wagner, Alfén and Beethoven. The Royal Philharmonic, directed by Uno Kamprad and featuring Scandinavian soloists.
    He had looked forward to the concert, and not only because it would generate incredibly welcome revenue for his company. He was also a Wagner fan.
    Michelle Carlsson liked opera music, he suddenly recalled. She would have enjoyed coming along to see the concert live.
    The thought was strangely arousing. Unseeingly, Gunnar Antonsson looked again at his own reflection in the mirror. In his mind’s eye he saw the white legs, the well-tended bush between Michelle’s legs, the moisture that still glistened on the inside of her thighs. He felt aroused and then ashamed. What was wrong with him?
    He hadn’t slept a wink after 6:12 this morning. That was when he had put the key in the lock of Outside Broadcast Bus No. Five, opened the door and encountered that odd smell. He’d never smelled anything quite like it before in his whole life. Sweet, sour and faecal at the same time. The absurdity of the situation struck him only after he had opened the door and the unbearable smell had enveloped him.
    ‘Why are you guys here?’ he had asked the crowd behind him, their faces displaying various degrees of inebriation and haggardness.
    ‘We’ve got to talk to Michelle,’ the scrawny one had said, the manager guy. He had tried to push past him, but Gunnar had blocked the way.
    ‘The sets have been struck and the equipment has been stowed. No one has any business being here.’
    ‘But Michelle’s in there,’ Anne Snapphane had said, and when Anne Snapphane spoke, he listened.
    ‘She can’t be. I just unlocked the door.’
    Dazed and half-asleep, Gunnar had stood there in his slacks, unbuttoned shirt and shoes with no socks and realized that the others hadn’t even been to bed. They’d