Free Prime Time by Liza Marklund

Restlessness churned inside her. This waiting was sheer torture.
    Anne closed her eyes and breathed shallowly, listening to the chirpy backdrop of sound on the other side of the thin wall: two radio-show hosts were squabbling good-naturedly. The music in the background faded and was replaced by jingles followed by the news.
    The flat tones of the woman in the news studio signalled how nervous she was about filling in on a holiday when most people had the day off. Anne heard about a terrorist attack on a bus in central Jerusalem without really listening and the spot gave way to a statement that the government was expected to finalize this autumn. The next item was Michelle’s death. Anne Snapphane concentrated on this, but the announcement was so short, matter-of-fact and without speculation that it almost seemed indifferent. Michelle Carlsson, the journalist, had been found dead in a control room after participating in a TV programme. The police suspected foul play. Investigations had not yet been concluded, and the police spokesman had declined to make further comments at this time.
    The newswoman paused for a split second before moving on to the story of two men who had been reported missing after their boat was found drifting keel up on Lake Vänern. Then came a report of a flood in Poland, and a weather forecast. The cold front would continue to move south and would be followed by new low-pressure zones coming in from the Atlantic. The province of Svealand could expect a steady downpour of rain and some local thunderstorms during the day. These would clear up, beginning in the northernmost regions, this evening.
    Suddenly, Mariana turned down the volume, and the weather conditions of Norrland disappeared somewhere halfway into the wall.
    Anne Snapphane felt the wallpaper close in on her, as though it was pressing up against her lungs. She struggled to get up, walked around the bed to reach the window and looked out over the bridge and the small canal. The room needed airing, so she opened the window, gasping when the wind and the rain threatened to tear the window frame out of her hand. Alarmed, she shut it again, latching it with trembling fingers. She rested for a minute or so, sitting on the desk with her back to the rain. Then she went over to the door, sure that it would be locked.
    It wasn’t. Opening it a crack, she heard the murmur of voices in the lounge. The hall was dark and empty, muffled sounds coming from all different directions. The light from her window fell on the door on the opposite side of the hallway, Karin Bellhorn’s room.
    It was a split-second decision. Without making a sound, Anne closed her door, tiptoed a couple of steps in the darkness over to Karin’s door and opened it.
    The producer was seated at the desk in her room, and she looked up in surprise, her eyes swollen and lips cracked, as Anne Snapphane entered the room and closed the door behind her.
    ‘What on––?’
    She got halfway out of her chair. Anne put her finger to her lips.
    ‘I’ve got to talk,’ she whispered, ‘or I’ll go nuts.’
    ‘We’re not allowed to talk,’ Karin whispered back to her. ‘Go back to your room.’
    Anne Snapphane’s lower lip began to tremble and so did her hands and arms.
    ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I can’t take it any more.’
    The producer came up to her, studied her briefly, then took her hands.
    ‘You poor thing,’ she said softly. ‘Sit down for a while.’
    Anne sunk down on the bed, buried her face in her hands and cried. The tears felt softer now, not as sharp and piercing as in her lonely room.
    ‘Shit,’ Anne sobbed. ‘This is so fucking awful! How could it happen?’
    Karin Bellhorn sighed, a deep and ragged sound that bordered on a sob.
    ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I can’t make sense of it.’
    ‘Did you see her?’
    Anne looked up at the producer. Karin smoothed her grey hair and averted her gaze.
    ‘I saw enough.’
    ‘She was still warm, but it was hot