Prime Time by Liza Marklund Page A

so, and now it was too late.
    The managing editor stacked the summonses. The poor air quality of the room had left him feeling sluggish. He knew he would have to remain at his desk for hours to come. Every single word about Michelle Carlsson destined for tomorrow’s paper would have to be closely reviewed by him. The last thing they needed was another court case, and this time the charge would be the defamation of a deceased person’s character.
    The mechanism groaning under his weight, Schyman leaned back in his chair. His wife was celebrating Midsummer with friends out in Vikinghill. He closed his eyes and pictured her there, seated on a patio under an awning, with flowers in her hair, singing and indulging in a schnapps or two.
    Why the hell did he take this lousy job?
    Because he was tired of superficial pursuits. Frustrated by the limited financial and expressive scope provided by Sweden’s public service television network back when he produced and hosted shows that reviewed society in a critical manner. He was fed up with the celebrity that came with the job. When he accepted the position as managing editor at Kvällspressen , he was shooting for something bigger, something more hands-on, responsible and well conceived. Many times he’d wondered if he’d made the right choice.
    The show he had walked out on was doing just fine. Mehmed was a better host than he’d ever been.
    Schyman got up and restlessly paced the floor.
    Well, he had a fire to put out, so he’d better get down to it.
    The rain was driving Annika crazy. Bertil Strand was a regular poster boy for geniality as he sat in the car belonging to the competition, laughing and being amusing. She would never stoop that low just to be warm and dry. Instead, she looked around, searching for some kind of shelter or a roof, her gaze lingering on the greenhouse beyond the parking lot. Did they usually lock those things?
    The door didn’t even have a lock. Sliding a glass panel to one side, Annika entered a lush green world. The heat and the smells were so intense that her head began to swim. It struck her that she hadn’t eaten all day. Dizzy and soaked, she sat down on a gravel path between two rows of tomato plants in bloom, leaned back against a big wooden planter and gazed out through the glass wall. She had a pretty good view of the parking lot and the bridge leading up to the castle.
    The words she’d tried to push away all day came back to haunt her. Thomas’s voice, choked with rage:
    ‘Well, wasn’t this convenient!’ ‘A fine mother you are!’ ‘I’m never going to forgive you for this. Damn you!’
    Slowly, she exhaled until every last particle of air had left her lungs.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, but you knew I might have to …’
    For a few minutes Annika succumbed to guilt and self-pity. Both emotions struggled to gain the upper hand and left her feeling drained and miserable. Conjuring up the faces of her children, she felt strangely unaffected by the thought of them just then.
    She got up, found a tap and drank until her thirst was quenched. Then she browsed through rows of arugula and sugar-snap peas, trying to pick some without leaving any noticeable gaps.
    I’ll treat Thomas to dinner here, and I’ll leave a big tip , she promised herself to make up for her pilfering ways.
    Somewhat less dizzy now, she returned to her seat by the planter, hesitated a moment and then called Anne Snapphane. Right before the answering service kicked in, her friend picked up.
    ‘You sound blue,’ Annika said.
    ‘I wonder why,’ Anne whispered and turned up the volume of a radio in the background.
    ‘How are you doing?’
    Anne Snapphane’s voice was feeble and flat.
    ‘I’m having a hard time breathing,’ Anne replied. ‘Do you think you can develop asthma overnight?’
    Not wanting to encourage her friend’s hypochondriac tendencies, Annika said nothing.
    ‘It’s so awful,’ Anne went on. ‘I see her in