Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  “No, no. It’s not about you. It’s about the minister.”

  Annika took a deep breath. “Qué?”

  “It seems he did it after all.”

  Annika hung up and walked toward the exit with her salad plate.

  “Hey, you!” the Perm shouted after her. “You’re not allowed to take the plate with you!”

  “So call the police,” Annika retorted, pushed the door open, and walked out.

  The newsroom was deathly quiet. The voice of the studio reporter resounded from the loudspeakers in the open-plan office, and all the journalists at the paper were leaning forward, taking in the message.

  Annika gingerly sat down at her desk. “What’s up?” she whispered to Anne Snapphane.

  Anne leaned over toward her. “They’ve found the receipt,” she said quietly. “The minister was at the strip club on the night of Josefin’s murder. She rang up his check half an hour before she died.”

  Annika went completely pale. “Jesus Christ!”

  “It all adds up. Christer Lundgren attended a conference with German Social Democrats and trade union representatives here in Stockholm on Friday, July twenty-seventh. He spoke about trade and cross-border cooperation. Afterward he took the Germans out on a spree.”

  “What a loser,” Annika said.

  “The Studio 69 reporters have found the receipt. And he noted down the names of the Germans on the reverse.”

  “Has he resigned yet?”

  “Do you think he will?” Anne Snapphane said.

  “Well, it doesn’t look very good. You can picture the headline. ‘Social Democrat Spends Taxpayers’ Money at Strip Joint.’”

  A man from the proofreading desk hushed them. Annika switched on her radio and turned up the volume.

  “Our reporter found the fateful receipt from the strip club in the archive of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. But by then the police were already on the minister’s track.”

  The man’s voice was full of restrained triumph. He was milking it, speaking slowly in an ominous voice.

  “There was, it appears… a witness.”

  A reporter began speaking, sounding as if he were standing in an empty hallway. The echo bounced around between the walls.

  “I’m standing in the stairwell of the house where Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren has his overnight apartment,” the reporter whispered excitedly. “Up to a few days ago, no one knew about it, not even his press secretary, Karina Björnlund. But there was one thing the minister failed to reckon with: the neighbors.”

  A sound effect faded in, shoes walking up marble steps.

  “I’m on my way up to the woman who was to become a key witness in the investigation into the murder of the stripper Josefin Liljeberg,” the reporter said, slightly out of breath.

  The elevator must be out of order again, Annika thought.

  “Her name is Elna Svensson, and it was her early-morning routine and razor-sharp observations that were to nail the minister.”

  A doorbell rang; Annika recognized it. He was at 64 Sankt Göransgatan, no doubt about it. The door opened.

  “He was coming into the building when Jasper and I were on our way out,” Elna Svensson said.

  Annika immediately recognized the whining voice. The fat woman with the dog.

  “Jasper likes to play in the park for a while before I have my morning coffee. Coffee and a plain bun, that’s what I have for breakfast.”

  “And this particular morning you met Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren on your way out?”

  “Yes, as I said.”

  “And he was on his way in?”

  “He came in, looking agitated. He nearly stepped on Jasper, and he didn’t apologize either.”

  Agitated? Annika noted the word down on her pad.

  “What time was this?”

  “I rise at five o’clock, every day of the week. It was just after that.”

  “Did you see anything strange in the park?”

  The woman sounded more nervous. “Absolutely not. Nothing at all. Neither did Jasper. He did his business and we came back in.”

  The studio reporter returned, now with the commentator in the studio. They discussed when the minister would resign, the impact on the election campaign, the future of Social Democracy. They even touched on national security. No issues were too important for Studio 69 on a day like this.

  “It pisses me off,” Anne Snapphane said.

  “What does?” Annika said.

  “That it had to be them of all people that found the receipt. Why didn’t I go up to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and ask to see it?”

  “The question is how they knew it was there to be asked for.”

  “We have tried to get hold of Christer Lundgren for a comment,” the studio reporter said, “but the minister has gone underground. Nobody knows where he is, not even his press secretary, Karina Björnlund, who claims not to have known about the strip club visit either.”

  Karina Björnlund’s nasal voice streamed out of the radio: “I haven’t got the slightest idea where he was that night. He told me he was having an informal meeting with some foreign representatives.”

  “Could that have been the German union leaders?” the reporter insinuated.

  “I couldn’t say,” she said.

  “And where is he now?”

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of him all day.”

  Anne Snapphane rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t sound like the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

  Annika shrugged.

  “The prime minister has declined to comment on our latest disclosures,” the studio reporter said. “Instead he referred us to a press conference at Rosenbad, tomorrow at eleven A.M.”

  “Do you think Lundgren will resign then?” Anne asked.

  Annika frowned. “It depends,” she said thoughtfully. “If the Social Democrats want an end to the discussion, they’ll drop him like a hot potato. They’ll appoint him county governor or vice president of some bank or something else equally boring up in the tundra.”

  Anne wagged her finger at Annika. “Watch it, you, you’re talking about my backyard.”

  “Provincialist,” Annika retorted. “That, however, would mean that the government would be admitting the minister was a murderer, even if he’s never convicted. So if all Social Democrats have a clear conscience, the minister should stay.”

  “Despite the receipt from the strip club?”

  “I bet my boots they’d come up with a great excuse. It was all probably his driver’s fault.” Annika grinned.

  The radio hosts were now ready to sum up and did so with authority. Annika reluctantly admitted to herself that the new disclosures were both sensational and well presented. They’d done a good job.

  “A minister in the Social Democrat cabinet takes seven German union leaders to a strip club,” the reporter said. “A busty, blond stripper rings up the check at half past four in the morning. The minister signs it and carefully notes down the names of his German guests on the reverse. Half an hour later he returns to his house, agitated, and nearly steps on his neighbor’s dog. The stripper is later found murdered fifty yards from the same house. She died between five and seven A.M. that same morning. The minister has been interviewed by the police on several occasions and has now disappeared…”

  The last words hung in the air when the electric guitar music began. Annika switched off.

  The senior editors had gathered over by the news desk. She saw Spike and Jansson; Ingvar Johansson; Picture Pelle and the sports editor; Anders Schyman and the editor in chief. Their backs were turned to the newsroom.

  “Check that out for an image,” Annika said. “They’re in the process of sinking the paper with that damned wall of backs.”

  “Whatever they’re talking about, we’re not involved,” Anne Snapphane said. “It’ll be golden boy who gets this treat.”

  And true enough, the group moved as one in Carl Wennergren’s directio
n.

  “Does Jansson work all the time?“Annika wondered.

  “Three ex-wives and five kids on the installment plan,” Anne replied.

  Annika slowly ate her wilting salad. Maybe that’s where you end up in this job, she thought. Maybe it’s just as well I’m out before I’ve become like those guys, a bunch of addled old hypocrites with brains that can only think in 72-point Bodoni.

  “You take care of Creepy Calls,” Spike said to her when he walked past.

  One and a half weeks left, Annika thought, held her tongue, and walked off to return her plate to the cafeteria.

  “I could do with a quiet night,” she said when she returned to her desk.

  “Ha!” Anne said. “That’s what you think. Look at the weather. All the loons will be calling.”

  Anne was right.

  “Immigration’s gone too far,” a voice said. It resonated with testosterone and the southern suburbs.

  “Do you think?” Annika said. “In what way?”

  “They’re taking over. Why the hell can’t they solve their own problems wherever it is they come from instead of bringing all their shit over here?”

  Annika leaned back in her chair and sighed soundlessly. “Could you be a bit more precise?”

  “First they rape and kill each other at home, then they come over here and strangle our girls. Take that dead girl in the park, for example.”

  At least there was someone who didn’t listen to Studio 69.

  “Well,” Annika said, “I’m not so sure the police share your suspicions.”

  “See! That’s what really pisses me off. The cops are protecting the fuckers!”

  “So what do you think should be done about it?” Annika asked in a silky voice.

  “Throw them out. Just send them all back to the jungle, goddammit!”

  Annika grinned. “I find it a bit hard to share your opinion as I’m black myself.”

  The man on the phone went quiet. Anne stopped writing and looked up at her, and Annika had problems keeping a straight face.

  “I want to talk to someone else,” the man said when he’d collected himself.

  “Sorry, there’s no one else here.”

  “Who is that idiot you’re talking to?” Anne asked.

  “There is,” the man said. “I can hear another woman in the background.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, there’s Anne. She’s Korean. Hang on and I’ll put you through to her.”

  “Oh, fuck it!” the man exclaimed, and hung up.

  “What an asshole!” Annika said.

  The phone rang again.

  “So, I don’t have to tell you my name, right?” The voice belonged to a frightened young girl.

  “Yeah, sure.” Annika said. “What’s it about?”

  “Well, you know, this TV guy, this program presenter…” The girl gave the name of one of Sweden’s most popular and highly esteemed TV journalists.

  “What about him?”

  “He dresses up in women’s clothes and he gropes young girls.”

  Annika groaned. She’d heard this one before. “People can dress up however they want in this country.”

  “He goes to sex clubs too.”

  “And we have freedom of opinion and religion and freedom of association.”

  The girl on the phone lost the thread. “Oh, so it’s nothing you’ll write about?”

  “Has he done anything illegal?”

  “No…”

  “Groped, you said. Has he forced himself on anyone?”

  “No, not really, they wanted to—”

  “Has he bought sexual favors with public money?”

  The girl was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Does he buy prostitutes with taxpayers’ money?”

  “I don’t know…”

  Annika thanked her for the tip-off and terminated the call. “You’re right,” she said to Anne. “Loon night.”

  The tip-off phone rang a third time. Annika grabbed it.

  “My name is Roger Sundström and I live in Piteå. Are you busy, or do you have a minute?”

  Annika sat down. This crazy man was actually polite.

  “I’ve got time. What’s it about?”

  “Well,” the man said in broad Norrland dialect, “it’s about this minister, Christer Lundgren. “They’re saying in this radio program, Studio 69, that he was at a strip club in Stockholm, but that’s not true.”

  Annika pricked up her ears; something in the man’s voice made her take him seriously. She found a pen beside the keyboard. “Tell me, what makes you think that?”

  “Well, we went to Majorca on holiday, the whole family. Silly, ‘cause it’s been warmer in Sweden than in Spain, but we couldn’t have known that when we… Well, anyway, we were on our way back to Piteå. We’d booked flights with Transwede from Stockholm, as they’re a bit cheaper…”

  A child laughed in the background and Annika heard a woman singing.

  “Go on.”

  “That’s when we saw the minister. He was at the airport when we were there.”

  “When was this?”

  “Friday the twenty-seventh, at twenty oh five in the evening.”

  “How can you be that exact?”

  “I remembered it was the time our plane was supposed to leave. It says on my ticket.”

  Of course! “But what makes you think the minister wasn’t at the strip club? The check that the reporters on Studio 69 are talking about was rung up at half past four the following morning. And a neighbor saw him.”

  “But he wasn’t in Stockholm then.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he got on the plane. We saw him at the checkin counter. He had a briefcase and a small suitcase.”

  Annika felt the hair on her neck stand up; this could be important. Yet, she was doubtful. She had to be sure.

  “How come you paid such close attention to the minister? How come you recognized him?”

  The children in the background started singing a silly song. Roger Sundström gave an embarrassed laugh.

  “I tried to talk to him, but he was too stressed-out. I don’t think he even registered me.”

  “Stressed? In what way?”

  “He was in a sweat and his hands were shaking.”

  “It was very hot that day, everyone was sweating.”

  Sundström patiently replied, “Yes, but he didn’t look like he normally does. His eyes were sort of staring.”

  Annika felt the excitement drop. Sundström was probably imagining things. “How do you mean, staring?”

  The man paused. “He was all tense, and he’s always so self-assured and relaxed.”

  “What do you mean ‘always’? Do you know him?” That’s what she thought he was implying.

  “Oh, yes. Christer’s married to my cousin Anna-Lena. They live somewhere in Luleå, and their twins are the same age as our Kajsa. We don’t meet up very often— the last time was at Granddad’s funeral, I think. But Christer sure doesn’t look like that normally, not even at funerals.”

  He fell silent, feeling that Annika didn’t believe him.

  Annika was at a loss but for the time being decided the man was telling the truth. At least he believed what he was telling her.

  “Did you see him on the plane as well?”

  Roger Sundström hesitated. “It was one of those big planes and it was packed. No, I don’t think I saw him.”

  Annika closed her eyes and thought about the claim on Studio 69 that there were ten thousand lobbyists in Stockholm; maybe they had a local office in Piteå.

  “There’s something I want to ask you, Roger, and I want you to be absolutely honest with me. It’s extremely important.”

  “Right, what’s that?” Annika sensed a note of suspicion and fear in his voice.

  “Did anyone ask you to make this call?”

  Again, there was a pause. “Well, I talked it over with Britt-Inger first. She thought I should call you.”

  �
�Britt-Inger?”

  “My wife.”

  “And why did your wife think you should call?”

  “Because they’re wrong on Studio 69.” Sundström was getting more assertive. “I called them first, but they wouldn’t talk to me. But I know what I saw. Britt-Inger saw him too.”

  Annika frantically racked her brains. “And nobody else asked you to call?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You’re absolutely sure about that?”

  “Now listen—”

  “Okay,” Annika said quickly. “What you’re saying is very interesting. It puts the allegations on Studio 69 in a completely different light. I’ll see whether I can use it in one way or another in the future. Thank you very much for…”

  Roger Sundström had already hung up.

  The moment she put the Creepy Calls phone down, her own phone started ringing.

  “You’ve got to help us.” It was Daniella Hermansson.

  “What’s happened?”

  “They keep calling Auntie Elna. She’s here with me now. There are fifteen journalists with TV cameras and God knows what outside our door, and they won’t stop ringing the bell. What can we do?”

  Daniella was in a real state. Annika heard the child screaming in the background and assumed her calmest tone of voice.

  “You have absolutely no obligation to let anyone in if you don’t want to. Neither you, nor Elna, has to talk to any journalists. Are they phoning too?”

  “Constantly.”

  “When we hang up, take the phone off the hook. They’ll only get the busy signal. If you feel threatened by the journalists outside your door, call the police.”

  “The police? Oh, I daren’t.”

  “Do you want me to do it?”

  “Could you? Please…”

  “You just hold the line and I’ll call them on another phone.”

  Annika picked up the Creepy Calls phone and dialed the direct number to the police control room.

  “Oh, hi, I’m calling from sixty-four Sankt Göransgatan,” she said. “The press have invaded. They’re scaring the pensioners to death. They’re yelling and shouting, ringing on all doors. The people from the radio are the worst. I’ve got five terrified pensioners with me right now. It’s the stairwell to the right, third floor.”

  She changed receivers. “They’re on their way.”

  Daniella breathed freely again. “Oh, thank you so much. How can I ever thank you? That was really good of you, I’ll—”