Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  “There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for the party.” A note of resignation was in her voice.

  *

  Q answered the phone. Annika was beside herself with joy, short-lived though it turned out to be.

  “I can’t say a word.”

  “Is the minister really a suspect?” Annika leaned back in her chair and put her feet on her desk.

  He gave a coarse laugh. “What an intelligent question! Did you come up with that all by yourself?”

  “There’s something about him. He’s scared of something coming out. What’s he hiding?”

  Q’s laughter died out and was followed by a brief silence. “Where do you get your information?”

  “I listen, check things out, observe. He lives very close to the murder scene, for one thing.”

  “You’ve figured that out.”

  “Does that have anything to do with it?”

  “All the tenants at sixty-four Sankt Göransgatan have been interviewed.”

  “It’s a condo.”

  “What?”

  “They’re not tenants, they own their apartments.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” the captain exclaimed.

  “Do you really think he did it?”

  Q sighed. “It’s not unthinkable.”

  Annika was at a loss. “But… what about the boyfriend? Joachim?”

  “He’s got an alibi.”

  Annika leaned forward in her chair. “So it wasn’t… It seemed like you—”

  “It would be better for everybody concerned if there wasn’t so much speculating going on in the media. You make life very difficult for people sometimes.”

  Annika flared up. “You’re one to talk! Who called a press conference at 10 P.M. on a Saturday evening so you could maximize the media coverage? Don’t bullshit me. What do you mean ‘make life very difficult’? Journalists never beat people up. The police have a lot more to answer for than the media!”

  “I don’t need to sit here and listen to this.” The police captain hung up.

  “Hello? Hello! Damn!”

  Annika threw the phone down, which earned her an annoyed look from Spike.

  “You’re sitting at my desk.”

  A woman in a tailored suit was haughtily eyeing her.

  Annika looked at her. “What?”

  “Aren’t you off today?”

  Annika put her feet on the floor, stood up, and held out her hand.

  “You must be Mariana. Nice to meet you. I’m Annika Bengtzon.”

  The well-dressed dragon had a complicated, aristocratic-sounding surname. Annika knew she was held to be a great talent.

  “I’d be grateful if you could tidy up after yourself. It’s not very pleasant to be met by this kind of thing when you go on your shift.”

  “I agree. I had to clear both the bookshelf and the desk after you when I came in last Thursday.”

  Annika quickly grabbed the papers she’d put on the desk.

  “I’m getting something to eat,” she said to the news editor, and took her bag and left.

  She bumped into Carl Wennergren by the elevators. He was with some of the other summer freelancers, and they all seemed to be laughing at something Carl had just said. Annika had been wondering how she would react when she next saw him. She’d been thinking about what she would say. Now she didn’t need to puzzle about it any longer. She resolutely blocked the group’s way.

  “Could I have a word with you?” she said curtly.

  Carl Wennergren pushed out his chest and flashed a smile that sparkled in his tanned face. His hair was still damp from his morning swim, his fringe tumbling onto his forehead.

  “Sure, babe. What about?”

  Annika started walking down the stairs. Carl, self-assured and relaxed, waved off his friends before he followed her. She waited for her colleague on a landing, her back against the wall, staring hard at him.

  “I had an offer last Monday,” she said in a low voice. “A group calling themselves the Ninja Barbies wanted to sell me a scoop. For fifty thousand in cash they’d let me be present when they carried out some kind of attack against a police official.”

  She watched Carl closely. The young man had stopped smiling. A blush spread over his face and out to his ears. He compressed his lips into a thin line.

  “What do you mean?” he said, his voice a bit stifled.

  “How did that story get into the paper?”

  Carl tossed back his fringe. “What the hell’s that got to do with you? Since when are you the editor in chief?”

  She looked at him without saying anything. He turned around and started walking upstairs. Annika didn’t move. After four steps he turned around and came back down, coming to a stop two inches from Annika’s face.

  “I didn’t pay them a goddamn cent,” he hissed. “Who the hell do you think I am?”

  “I’m not thinking anything,” she said, noticing that her voice was a bit shaky. “I just thought it was odd.”

  “They wanted to spread their message,” Carl hissed, “but they couldn’t sell the scoop. There isn’t a paper in the world that’s stupid enough to finance a terrorist attack on a police official. You know that.”

  “So they gave it to you for free?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And then you thought it was cool to be in on it?”

  Carl spun around and took the stairs two steps at a time.

  “Did they wait for you to load the film before they started the fire?” she called after him.

  The reporter disappeared into the newsroom without looking back.

  Annika continued downstairs. Carl might be telling the truth. It would be pointless to start setting fire to cars if no one knew why they were doing it. The Ninja Barbies could have given him an ordinary tip-off.

  But he hadn’t known that the offer had been made to her first, she was sure of that. She had caught him off guard.

  She walked out through the main entrance hall, pretending not to hear Tore Brand’s complaints.

  It was hotter than ever. The sun was beating down on the forecourt in front of the entrance and the asphalt was soft. She walked over to the kiosk on Rålambsvägen and bought a hot dog with mashed potatoes and shrimp cocktail, which she ate right there.

  *

  The early broadcast of Aktuellt didn’t mention Josefin’s murder, the minister, or the Ninja Barbies in the headlines. Maybe those stories would turn up later on in the program, but for the time being nobody at Kvällspressen was watching. But everything stopped dead when the electric guitar in the Studio 69 signature tune reverberated around the newsroom. Annika sat at Berit’s desk, staring at the radio loudspeakers.

  “The police investigation into the murder of nineteen-year-old Josefin Liljeberg grows increasingly complex,” the program presenter announced over the music. “The young woman was a stripper at an infamous strip club, and Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren has been brought in for further questioning. More on these matters in today’s current affairs program with debate and analysis, live from Studio 69.”

  Annika could feel the eyes on her from the news desk without even looking up, the gazes burning through the back of her head.

  “Wednesday, August first. Welcome to Studio 69 from Radio House in Stockholm,” boomed the voice of the program presenter.

  “Josefin Liljeberg was a stripper at the notorious strip club that has taken the name of this radio program, Studio 69. In other media, principally in the tabloid Kvällspressen, she has been portrayed as a quiet family girl dreaming of a journalistic career and wanting to help children in need. The truth is quite different. We will now hear a recording of the woman’s voice.”

  A tape began rolling in the control room. A young woman, trying hard to sound sensual, invited you to Studio 69, the most intimate club in Stockholm. She gave the opening hours: 1 P.M. to 5 A.M. You could meet gorgeous girls, buy them champagne, watch the floor show or a private show, watch movies or buy them.

&nbs
p; Annika had difficulty breathing and hid her face in her hands. She hadn’t known the voice was Josefin’s.

  The program carried on with information about the murder. The minister had been brought in for another interview at Stockholm police headquarters. They started up another tape, a door slamming shut and reporters shouting questions as Christer Lundgren entered the building.

  Annika got up, hung her bag over her shoulder, and walked out the back door. The looks burning in her back ate away the oxygen from her. She had to have air before she died.

  *

  Patricia had set the clock radio for 17:58 on the P3 station. This would give her time to go to the bathroom and drink some water before Studio 69 started. She had slept a deep and dreamless sleep and felt almost drugged when she stumbled back to the mattress. Clumsily, she propped up the pillows against the wall. She listened in the dark behind her black curtains, Josefin’s curtains. The man on the radio tore Jossie to pieces, dragging her name through the mud, sullying everything about her. Patricia cried. It was so unfair.

  She switched off the radio and went to the kitchen. With trembling hands she made a pot of tea. Just as she was about to pour the first cup, the doorbell rang. It was the journalist.

  “The fucking bastards!” Annika exclaimed, and stormed into the apartment. “How the hell can they make her out to be some kind of prostitute? It’s insane!”

  Patricia wiped away her tears. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just made a pot.”

  “Please.” Annika sank down on a chair. “I wonder if you can do something— report them to the press ombudsman or make a complaint to the Broadcast Commission, or something. They can’t do this!”

  Patricia took out another cup and put it in front of the journalist. She didn’t look well. She was even paler and thinner than last time she’d seen her.

  “Do you want a sandwich? I’ve got some flat bread.” It was Jossie’s favorite, with Port Salut cheese.

  “No thanks, I’ve been eating all day.” Annika pushed the cup away and leaned over the table, staring straight into Patricia’s eyes. “Did I get it all wrong, Patricia? Did I get it wrong in my articles?”

  Patricia swallowed and looked down. “Not that I know,”

  “Tell me honestly, Patricia. Have you ever seen that minister, Christer Lundgren?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Maybe.”

  Annika leaned back on the chair, resigned. “Jesus. So it could be true. A cabinet minister. Jesus Christ!” She got to her feet and started pacing up and down. “But it’s fucking indefensible to depict Josefin as a hooker. And to play that tape with her voice— it’s so awful.”

  “That wasn’t Jossie.” Patricia blew her nose.

  Annika stopped and gaped at her. “It wasn’t? Then who the hell was it?”

  “It was Sanna, the hostess. It’s her job to keep a check on the answering machine. Drink your tea, it’s getting cold.”

  The journalist sat down again. “Those jerks at the radio don’t know as much as they think.”

  Patricia didn’t reply. She put her hands over her face. Her own life had disappeared along with Josefin’s, replaced by an uncontrollable reality. She was being pulled further into an abyss each day.

  “It’s all a bad dream,” she said, her voice muffled behind her hands. She felt the journalist’s gaze on her.

  “Have you talked with anyone about all this?”

  Patricia let her hands drop from her face, sighed, and lifted her cup. “How do you mean?”

  “A therapist or a counselor?”

  Patricia looked affronted. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Perhaps you need to talk to somebody?”

  Patricia drank her tea— it was tepid. She swallowed. “What could anyone do? Josefin is dead.”

  Annika looked at her intently. “Patricia. Please, tell me what you know. It’s important. Was it Joachim?”

  Patricia placed her cup on the saucer and looked down on her lap. “I don’t know,” she said in a low voice. “It could have been someone else. Some VIP…” Her voice trailed off; suddenly the kitchen was heavy with silence.

  “Why do you think that?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes again.

  “I can’t tell you,” she whispered.

  “Why not?”

  She looked up at the journalist, tears rolling down her cheeks; her voice was squawky and shrill. “Because he’d know that it was me who’d ratted on him! Don’t you get it? I can’t! I won’t!”

  Patricia jumped to her feet and ran out of the kitchen. She threw herself on her mattress, pulling the cover over her head. The reporter stayed in the kitchen. After a while Patricia heard her voice over by the door.

  “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll check if it’s possible to report Studio 69 for the shit they’ve been circulating about Josefin. I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”

  Patricia didn’t answer but stayed under the cover, breathing rapidly and shallowly, inhaling stuffy, clammy air that seemed to have lost its oxygen.

  The journalist opened the front door and closed it quietly behind her. Patricia threw the cover to the side. She lay still, looking out through a gap in the black curtains.

  Soon it would be night again.

  *

  Jansson was back, thank God! At least he had a brain, unlike Spike.

  “You look tired,” Jansson said.

  “Thanks,” Annika retorted. “Have you got a moment?”

  He clicked away something on his screen. “Sure. Smoke room?”

  They sat down in the glass cubicle next to the sports desk. The night editor lit up a cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the fan.

  “The minister lives fifty yards from the murder scene. Everybody in the house has been interviewed.”

  Jansson whistled. “That puts it in a different light. Have you found out anything more?”

  She looked down at the floor. “The boyfriend has an alibi. One of my sources tells me that it could have been someone important who killed her.”

  Jansson smoked and looked at the young journalist in silence. He couldn’t figure her out. She was smart, inexperienced, and unbelievably ambitious. A not completely healthy combination.

  “Tell me. What are your sources?”

  She pressed her lips together. “You won’t tell, will you?”

  He shook his head.

  “The murdered girl’s roommate and the police captain in charge of the investigation at Krim. Neither of them will speak openly, but they do tell me things off the record.”

  Jansson’s eyes widened a bit. “Not bad. How did you manage that?”

  “I’ve been calling and hassling them. I went to the girl’s house. Her name’s Patricia. I’m a bit worried about her.”

  Jansson stubbed out the cigarette. “We’ll go harder after the minister today. They’ve had him in for questioning three times now. There has to be something more than his apartment that’s motivating them. That he lives so close is interesting, I haven’t read that anywhere else. Let’s do a story on that. How did you find out, by the way?”

  “I had coffee with a neighbor. Then I rang on his door.”

  Jansson was taken aback. “And he opened the door?”

  She blushed. “I needed to use the bathroom.”

  The night editor leaned back in his chair. “What did he say?”

  She gave an embarrassed laugh. “He threw me out.”

  Jansson laughed heartily.

  “Where’s Carl?” Annika wondered.

  “He got another tip-off about those Barbie dolls. They seem to have something new going on.”

  Annika stiffened. “What happened yesterday?”

  “I don’t know, actually. He just came in with the pictures around nine.”

  “Did you know he was bringing them in?”

  Jansson shook his head and lit up again. “Nope. They came like a gift from the skies.”

  “Do you think it’s eth
ically justifiable to stand around and watch people setting fire to police cars?”

  Jansson sighed and stubbed the cigarette out after two drags. “That’s too big a discussion for right now.” He stood up. “Will you check with Carl to see if you should add anything to his story?”

  Annika also got up. “Sure thing, babe.”

  Jansson hurried over to answer his phone.

  “Hi, Berit! How the hell’s it going?… No? The son of a bitch!”

  Annika sat down at Berit’s desk and wrote her pieces. The minister’s association with the crime scene was tricky to string together. She didn’t have much to make a show of. She just sat staring at the screen for a long while, then she lifted the phone and rang Christer Lundgren’s press secretary.

  “Karina Björnlund,” the woman answered.

  Annika introduced herself and asked if she was interrupting anything.

  “Well, yes, I’m getting ready for a dinner party. Could you call back tomorrow?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I told you I’m busy.”

  “Why are they questioning the minister?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Is it because he lives right next to the murder scene?”

  The press secretary’s surprise sounded real. “He does?”

  Annika groaned. “Thanks for letting me interrupt you,” she said dryly. “It was very helpful.”

  “That was nothing,” Karina Björnlund chirped. “Have a nice evening!”

  Jesus Christ! Annika thought.

  She called the switchboard and asked where Berit was staying in Gotland and got the number of a hotel. The reporter was in her room.

  “No luck?” Annika said.

  Berit heaved a sigh. “The Speaker refuses to admit any knowledge of the IB affair.”

  “What is it you’re trying to dig out?”

  “He was one of the principal players in the sixties. Among other things, his wartime posting was with IB.”

  “Really?”

  “Formally, he was posted at the Defense Staff Headquarters intelligence outfit, but in reality he carried on with his normal political work. How are you doing?”

  Annika paused. “So-so. Studio 69 reported that she was a stripper.”

  “Did you know that?”

  Annika closed her eyes. “Yep.”

  “So why didn’t you write about it?” Berit sounded surprised.