Prime Time by Liza Marklund Read Free Book Online Page A

least when Peter Forsberg is on it, and the social welfare system is good, and the countryside. The countryside. Annika tried to make it out behind the pouring rain. All she could see were various smudgy shades of brown and grey. There were no mitigating circumstances on a day like this. She wiped her nose, forcing the sour smell to recede.
    Several people had made it to the scene before it had been sealed off. In addition to the competition she noticed there were representatives from the national broadcasting service; the local radio station, Radio Sörmland; the regional news show Öst-Nytt and her old paper, Katrineholms-Kuriren. Their cars were all more or less sloppily parked up by the Garden Wing. She pulled out a pad and a pen and looked over the cars in the lot.
    A golden Range Rover, the largest and most expensive SUV on the market. Annika jotted down the licence-plate number. She continued: a VW Polo, red, with a black soft top; a rusty Fiat Uno; a black sports car that looked pretty ritzy until she realized that it was a Chrysler; a green Volvo S40; a bronze-coloured Renault Clio with a ‘Jesus Lives’ sticker on the rear window; a blue BMW and a brown Saab 900 that had seen a good decade or two.
    Her cellphone was working – well, thank you, Mr Stenbeck – and she got hold of a guy at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Stockholm within a minute or two.
    ‘Could you run a few licence-plate numbers for me?’
    The giant SUV belonged to TV Plus; the German convertible was listed as belonging to Barbro Rosenberg, a resident of Solna; the Fiat belonged to a Hannah Persson, Katrineholm; the sporty Chrysler belonged to Build&Create in Jönköping; the Volvo was the property of a Karin Andersson, 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