Prime Time by Liza Marklund

dead person. It was in Kronobergsparken in Stockholm, just a few blocks away from where she lived. Shielded by tall trees, the small Jewish cemetery had been dark and in a state of neglect. The heat, the stench, the wide-open eyes and the slightly screaming mouth of the dead woman. Her name had been Josefin. Josefin Liljeberg. She died because she loved too much. It could have been me , Annika thought.
    Then she caught a glimpse of the hearse between the trees over by the smithy and the beach house. Slowly, it pulled up at the roadblock where the reporters were waiting. Cameras whirred and clicked, photographers stepped on each other’s toes and heels. Annika wasn’t standing with the crowd; she saw the car roll up and the policeman drive the media pack away. The tape was pulled back to allow the hearse to accelerate across the bridge, the white body-bag barely visible through the tinted glass windows, and head for the drive. The reporter from the local radio station ran after the vehicle, pointing his mike at the wheels. Annika blinked – talk about tasteless!
    Bertil Strand followed the car with his telephoto lens until it disappeared from sight over by the stud farm.
    ‘There are two things I’d like you to tell me,’ he said to Annika. ‘How do we get out of here, and how do I get my car back?’
    Annika stared at the photographer.
    ‘Is that all you need help with?’ she asked. ‘Anything else I can do for you?’
    She picked up her cellphone and dialled a preprogrammed number.
    ‘I’ve reached Flen,’ Berit Hamrin said, using the hands-free feature of her cellphone. ‘Where’s Yxtaholm?’
    Annika exhaled with relief.
    ‘You’re coming by way of Norrköping, right? Drive across town, take the 55, turn left, then make a right at the sign … Yeah, we’re inside, but I doubt they’ll let you pass. We rowed over. That’s right, we used a rowboat.’
    She laughed as she hung up.
    ‘Berit will be here in ten minutes. As soon as we’re done here, she can give you a lift over to your car.’
    ‘What are we waiting for?’
    ‘For the twelve people who were detained to put in an appearance. Or eleven, as the case may be. If we stay here at the parking lot, we’ll have the best shot at getting to them before they leave.’
    ‘Something’s happening up at the castle,’ Bertil Strand said, peering over her head.
    A policeman wearing a leather jacket and a Hawaiian shirt was crossing the bridge. The rest of the press representatives were gathered on one side of the barrier. The policeman stopped on the other side.
    ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘The press officer just informed me that he won’t be coming, so I have some information to impart to the press. Let’s make this short and sweet.’
    Annika fished a pad and a marker out of her bag. She saw her colleagues repeatedly click their ballpoint pens. They never learned. Ballpoint pens were useless: water made the ink run and if it was cold enough, the ink would freeze. When it was as damp as this you couldn’t even use a pencil, only a waterproof marker.
    ‘Michelle Carlsson was found dead in a mobile control room parked behind the New Wing in the grounds of Yxtaholm. She had been shot in the head. Death was instantaneous …’
    ‘Were there any signs of a struggle in the control room?’ one of the TV reporters called out. Annika recognized the woman, knowing that she always prided herself on winning press conferences. In other words, the reporter thought she showed the world how good she was by being loud and by butting in first as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
    Lieutenant Q sighed.
    ‘Could we take this nice and easy? Thank you. The victim has been taken to the medical examiner’s office in Solna. Pathologists and investigators will continue their work there. During the day we have interviewed a number of people who were in the vicinity of the castle at the time of the murder. There are no suspects at present, but the police will continue