Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  She lay back down, staring at the ceiling and trying to repress her shameful excitement. It slowly faded. Was she never going to get used to it?

  Her gaze traveled around the room. The door to the walk-in closet was open, Josefin’s clothes hanging untidily on their hangers. Patricia knew this was the work of the police officers. Jossie was particular about her clothes.

  I wonder what will become of them now? she thought. Maybe I could have some of them.

  She got up and walked over to the closet. She ran her hand over the garments. They were expensive; Joachim had bought most of them. Patricia wouldn’t be able to wear the dresses— they’d be too loose across the chest. But the skirts, and perhaps some of the suits…

  The jingling of keys in the front door made her start. She quickly closed the closet and flew across the wooden floor in her bare feet. She had just closed the door to Josefin’s room when Joachim stepped inside the hall.

  “What are you doing?” He was sweating at the hairline and had dark patches on his shirt.

  Patricia looked at the man, pulse racing in her veins and mouth completely dry. She tried to smile. “Nothing,” she said nervously.

  “Stay the fuck out of Josefin’s bedroom. We’ve told you enough times.” He slammed the front door shut.

  “The cops. The fucking cops have made a mess everywhere, in here too.”

  He swallowed the bait. “Fucking cops.” Patricia sensed a catch in his voice. “Did they take anything?”

  He walked toward Patricia, who stood in front of Jossie’s bedroom. “I don’t know. Not from me, anyway.”

  He threw the bedroom door open and walked over to the bed, lifting the cover. “The sheet. They’ve taken the bedclothes.”

  Watchful, Patricia remained in the doorway. He walked round the room, seemingly checking to see everything was accounted for. He sat down heavily on the bed with his back to the door, leaning his head in his hands. Patricia breathed in the dust, too scared to move. She looked at his broad shoulders and strong arms. The light from the window made his hair glow. He really was good-looking. Josefin had been the happiest girl in the world when they became a couple. Patricia remembered her tears of joy and accounts of how wonderful he was. As if she were delirious.

  Joachim turned round and looked at her. “Who do you think did it?” he said quietly.

  Patricia’s face was expressionless. “Some madman,” she said calmly and firmly. “Some drunk on his way home. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  He turned away again. “Could it have been one of the customers?” he asked without looking up.

  Patricia carefully weighed her answer. “One of the big shots from last night, you mean? I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “It would be the end of the club.”

  She looked down at her hands, twiddling with the hem of the T-shirt. “I miss her already.”

  Joachim stood and came up to her, putting his hand on her shoulder and stroking her arm.

  “Patricia,” he said guardedly. “I understand how sad you must be. I’m just as sad myself.”

  It made her skin crawl and she had to brace herself not to recoil from his touch.

  “I hope the police catch him,” she said.

  Joachim pulled her close, a sob shaking his big body. “Shit, shit,” he said in a stifled voice. “She’s dead.”

  He began to cry. Patricia gingerly put her arms on his back, rocking him slightly.

  “My Jossie, my angel!”

  He cried, sobbing and blubbering. She closed her eyes and forced herself to stay where she was.

  “Poor Joachim,” she whispered. “Poor you…”

  He let go of her and went to the bathroom. She could hear him blowing his nose and urinating. Embarrassed, she waited in the hall, listening to the stream of piss and then the flushing water.

  “Did the police talk to you?” he asked when he came out.

  She swallowed. “A bit, yesterday. They want to talk to me again today.”

  He studied her closely. “That’s good. The scumbag has to be locked up. What are you going to tell them?”

  She turned away and walked out into the kitchen and poured a glass of water.

  “Depends on what they ask me. I don’t really know anything,” she said, and drank from the glass.

  He followed her and stopped in the doorway, leaning against the door frame. “They’re going to ask you what Jossie was like and stuff. How she was…”

  Patricia placed the glass on the counter with a bang and looked Joachim in the eye. “I’ll never say anything that would be bad for Jossie,” she said assertively.

  He looked happy with that. “Come with me,” he said, placing his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her along through the hallway, into Josefin’s bedroom and over to her closet.

  “Have a look at these,” he said, rifling through Jossie’s expensive suits with his free hand. “Do you want any of these? This one, maybe?”

  He took out a bright pink, silk-and-wool, fitted suit with large gold buttons that Josefin had adored. She thought she looked like Princess Diana in it.

  Patricia felt tears well up in her eyes. She swallowed. “Joachim, I couldn’t…”

  “Go on, take it. It’s yours.”

  She started crying. He let go of her and held up the suit in front of her.

  “Your tits are a bit small, but maybe we could see to that.” He smiled at her.

  Patricia stopped crying, looked down, and let him put the hanger in her hand. “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “You could wear it to the funeral.”

  She heard him go out into the kitchen and get something from the fridge. Then he left the apartment.

  Patricia remained standing in Josefin’s overheated bedroom, frozen to the spot. She chased away a thought she had about being safe there. Patricia had nowhere else to go.

  *

  The Rival had talked to the father. He didn’t say anything interesting, only that he couldn’t believe that she was gone. But they had got a quote…

  “You never know which way the wind’s going to blow,” Berit said. “If they’re unlucky, they’ll have a big discussion about media ethics on their hands.”

  “For approaching the family?” Annika asked, and skimmed through the story.

  Berit nodded and took a sip from a can of mineral water. “You’ve got to be extremely careful when you do that. Some people want to talk, but many don’t. You mustn’t ever trick anyone into talking to you. Did you call her parents?”

  Annika folded up the paper and shook her head. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It didn’t seem right.”

  “That’s not a very good guiding principle,” Berit said seriously. “Just because it’s unpleasant for you, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it will be for them. Sometimes the family feels better if they know what the papers will be writing about them.”

  “So you think the media should call the family when a child has died?” Annika knew she sounded confrontational.

  Berit drank some more water and thought for a moment. “Well, each case is different. The only thing you’ll know for sure is that people react in different ways. There is no universal right or wrong way of doing things. You have to be careful and sensitive so you don’t hurt anyone.”

  “Well, I’m glad I didn’t call.” Annika got up to get some coffee.

  By the time she returned, Berit had gone back to her own desk.

  I wonder if I’ve offended her, Annika thought to herself. She saw Berit sitting hunched over a paper at the other end of the newsroom landscape. She quickly picked up the phone and dialed Berit’s extension.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked, meeting Berit’s gaze across the floor.

  Annika saw her laughter and heard it in the earpiece. “Not a bit! You have to find out for yourself what’s right for you.”

  The Creepy Calls phone rang and Annika switched receivers.

  “How much for a really hot tip?” a
n excited male voice asked.

  Annika groaned inwardly and reeled off the information.

  “Okay,” the man said. “Wait for this— you got a pen?”

  “Yeah. Get to the point.”

  “I know a TV celebrity who dresses up in women’s clothes and visits sex clubs.” The man sounded as if he were ready to burst, and he named one of Sweden’s most popular and admired TV presenters.

  It made Annika crazy. “Bull. Do you think Kvällspressen’s going to print that garbage?”

  The caller was taken by surprise. “But it’s a big story.”

  “Jesus, people can do whatever they like. And what makes you think it’s true?”

  “I have it from a reliable source,” the man said proudly.

  “Sure. Thanks for calling.” Annika hung up.

  She saw that their tabloid rival had roughly the same copy and photos in their murder coverage as Kvällspressen. But Annika thought they hadn’t done as good a job. For example, they didn’t have the portrait of Josefin in her graduation cap. And their pictures from the murder scene were weaker and the articles more prosaic; the neighbors they had interviewed were more boring, and their update on the old Eva murder was less thorough. They had no teacher or friend, where Kvällspressen had short interviews both with the friend Charlotta and the deputy principal Martin Larsson-Berg.

  “Well done,” Spike said from somewhere above her head. She looked up and met the gaze of her superior.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He sat down on the edge of her desk. “What are we doing today?”

  A peculiar warmth spread inside her. She was one of them now. He had come up to her and asked what she was doing.

  “I thought I’d go and talk to her roommate, the girl who identified the body.”

  “Do you think she’ll talk to you?”

  “It’s not impossible. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her.”

  She knew instinctively that she shouldn’t tell him about meeting Patricia in the park. If she did, Spike would get steamed up about her not coming right back to write a story on it.

  “Okay,” the news editor said. “Who’s doing the police investigation?”

  “Berit and I are doing it together.”

  “Okay. What else? Do you think the father and mother will do a weepie?”

  Annika fidgeted. “I’m not sure now’s the right time to disturb them.”

  “He talked to the Rival. What did he say when you called?”

  Annika’s cheeks turned red. “He… I… didn’t want to intrude so shortly after…”

  Spike got up and left without a word. Annika wanted to explain how wrong it had felt, that you couldn’t behave like that. But she didn’t make the rules. The stout back of Spike drifted away and she saw him plunk his heavy body down in the swivel chair by his desk. Despite the distance, Annika could make out its heavy creaking.

  She quickly grabbed a pad and a pen and a tape recorder, stuffed everything in her bag, and went over to the picture desk. No photographers were in the office and consequently no cars were available. She ordered a cab.

  “To Vasastan, Dalagatan.”

  She wanted to know what life the dead woman had led.

  *

  He woke with a start from the light touch of his wife’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Christer,” she whispered. “It’s the prime minister.”

  He sat up, feeling slightly disoriented. The bed swayed and his body ached with weariness.

  He got up and walked over toward his study. “I’ll take it in here.”

  The prime minister sounded steady and clear on the phone. He’d probably been awake for several hours.

  “Well, Christer, did you get back home all right?”

  The minister for foreign trade slumped down on the chair by his desk, pulling his hand through his hair. “Yes, but the drive up was tedious. How are you?”

  “I’m just fine. I’m at Harpsund with the family. So how did it go?”

  Christer Lundgren cleared his throat. “As expected. They’re not exactly ballerinas at the negotiating table.”

  “Well, the arena isn’t exactly an opera stage either. How do we proceed?”

  The minister for foreign trade quickly sorted through the thoughts in his muddled brain. When he started speaking, his words were tolerably structured and clear. He had had time to think it over on the drive up to Luleå.

  After the call he stayed at his desk, his head hanging over the writing pad. It showed a world map from before the fall of the Iron Curtain. He looked among the republics’ anonymous yellow patches without cities or borders.

  His wife opened the door slightly. “Do you want some coffee?”

  He turned around and smiled at her. “I’d love some,” he said, his smile widening, “but first I want you.”

  She took his hand and led him back into the bedroom.

  *

  The doorbell made Patricia jump. The police weren’t coming for several hours yet. Her mouth turned dry. What if it was Jossie’s parents?

  She tiptoed out in the hall and peeked through the peephole. She recognized the woman from the park this morning. She opened the door without hesitation.

  “Hi. How did you find me?”

  The journalist smiled. She looked tired. “Computers. There are registers for everything these days. Can I come in?”

  “It’s a bit of a mess. The police were here and turned everything upside down.”

  “I promise not to start clearing up.”

  Patricia gave it another moment’s thought. “Okay.” She held the door wide open to the woman. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Annika. Annika Bengtzon.”

  They shook hands.

  The journalist stepped inside the dark hall and took her shoes off. “Phew, it’s hot.”

  “I know,” Patricia said. “I hardly slept at all last night.”

  “Because of Josefin?”

  Patricia nodded.

  “Nice suit.” Annika nodded in her direction.

  Patricia turned red and passed her hand over the shiny pink fabric. “It was Josefin’s. I’ve been given it.”

  “You look like Princess Diana in it.”

  “I don’t…! I’m too dark. I’ll take it off. Just wait here.”

  Patricia disappeared into her room, which was the living room, and put the suit back on the hanger. She looked around for a hook to hang it on and, when she didn’t find one, hung it on a door. She quickly put on a pair of jeans and a camisole.

  The journalist was in the kitchen when Patricia came out of her room.

  “The cops should clear up after themselves. Would you like some tea?”

  “I’d love some,” Annika said, and sank down onto a chair.

  Patricia lit the gas stove, poured water into an aluminum saucepan, and started putting things back in the cupboards.

  “Jossie’s stars were lined up against her. Things weren’t looking too rosy right now. Her sun sign had been dominated by Saturn for almost a year; she’s been having a tough time.” Patricia broke off and blinked away the tears.

  “Do you believe in that stuff?” Annika thought it was bullshit.

  “I don’t believe, I know,” Patricia said. “We’ve got English Breakfast or Earl Grey.”

  Annika chose the Breakfast tea.

  “I brought the paper.” She put the first edition of Kvällspressen on the table.

  Patricia didn’t touch it. “You can’t use anything I tell you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You can’t say that you’ve been here.”

  “Fine.”

  Patricia watched the journalist in silence. Annika looked young, not much older than herself. She dipped the tea bag in the mug a few times, twirled the string round the tea bag on the spoon, and squeezed out a few more drops of strong tea.

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “I want to understand,” Annika said calmly. “I want to know who
Josefin was, how she lived, her thoughts and feelings. You know all that. When I know, I can put the right questions to a lot of other people, without saying a word of what you tell me. You’re protected by law when you speak to me. No person in authority is allowed even to ask who I’ve spoken to.”

  Patricia gave it some thought while she drank her tea.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I think you probably know that best. What was she like?”

  Patricia sighed. “She could be really childish sometimes. I could get really mad at her. She’d forget that we’d arranged to meet in town. There I’d stand waiting, looking like a fool. And then she wouldn’t even be sorry. ‘Oh, I forgot’ was all she’d say.”

  Patricia fell silent, then added, “I miss her, though.”

  “Where did she work?”

  She had taken out a pen and pad. Patricia noticed and straightened her back. “You won’t write about this, will you?”

  Annika smiled. “My memory can be as bad as Josefin’s. I’m just taking notes for my own sake.”

  Patricia relaxed. “A club called Studio 69. It’s in Hantverkargatan.”

  “Is it?” Annika said in surprise. “That’s where I live. Where on Hantverkargatan?”

  “On the hill. Not that there’s a big neon sign, or anything. It’s pretty discreet, all you see is a small board in the shop window.”

  Annika gave it some thought. “But isn’t that the name of the radio show, Studio 69?” she said hesitantly.

  Patricia giggled.

  “Yes. But Joachim, the guy who owns the club, realized that the radio station hadn’t registered it. He thought it was funny to use the same name. And it’s a really good name— you know what it’s about. The whole thing might end up in court.”

  “Joachim. Is that Josefin’s boyfriend?”

  Patricia’s face turned serious. “The stuff that I told you in the park, you mustn’t ever tell anyone about it.”

  “But you did tell the police, didn’t you?”

  Patricia’s eyes grew wide. “That’s true,” she said, as if she had forgotten. “I did.”

  “Don’t worry about having told them. It’s very important that the police get to know about stuff like that.”

  “But Joachim’s really upset. He came here this morning and he was crying.”