Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  Annika wasn’t listening. “Why did Elna talk to the reporter from Studio 69?”

  “She says she hasn’t talked to any reporters.”

  “She must have, I heard her on the radio. It would have been today or yesterday.”

  Daniella put the phone down and talked to someone in the room.

  “Auntie Elna says absolutely not.”

  Annika pondered her words. “Listen, is Aunty Elna okay? Does she ever get a little confused?”

  The answer came fast and assuredly. “Not a bit, she’s completely with it. No reporter, she’s positive.”

  “Well, she talked to someone, unless I and the entire pack of hacks outside your door have been hallucinating.”

  “A policeman. She spoke to a police officer this morning. He said he wanted to clarify a few points from a previous interview.”

  “Did he record their conversation?”

  “Did he record your conversation?” Daniella asked.

  A long mumbling conversation followed.

  “Yes,” Daniella said into the phone. “He wanted a transcript. The documentation of all interviews is very important, the policeman said.”

  They have absolutely no shame, Annika thought to herself.

  “And she’s sure about the day and the time? About when she bumped into the minister?”

  “Yes, she’s absolutely sure.”

  “How can she be?”

  “Can I tell her?” Daniella asked her neighbor.

  Mumbling and muttering. Then back into the phone: “No, I can’t tell you why, but she is. Oh, something’s happening outside! Hang on, let me check…”

  Daniella dropped the phone; Annika could hear her footsteps. She was probably looking through the peephole. Then the steps returned.

  “The police are here now. They’re clearing out the stairwell. Thanks a million for all your help.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Annika hung up, her head spinning. Creepy Calls rang again.

  “You take it, please,” Annika said to Anne Snapphane, and walked off to the cafeteria. She bought a bottle of mineral water and sat down by a window, looking out at the rain. It was a dark and heavy night. Not even the lights at the Russian embassy could penetrate the gloom.

  I wonder when Josefin’s funeral is, she mused. I guess it’ll be some time. The medical examiners and the police will want the chance to look at her body now so they won’t have to dig her back up.

  She thought about the minister, wondering what window he was staring out of.

  Talk about being up shit creek, she thought. How can you be so damn stupid to hand in the receipt from a strip joint to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs?

  He’s just tightfisted, that’s how.

  While she finished her water, her thoughts returned to Josefin. The dead girl had been completely forgotten in all this. From the moment she was exposed as a stripper, she became nothing but a piece of meat, a men’s toy. Annika thought about her parents.

  I wonder how my mom would have reacted if it had been me, she mused. Would she have cried to a journalist from the local paper?

  Probably not. Her mother disliked journalists. People should mind their own business was what she thought. She’d never said it straight out, but she wasn’t happy with Annika’s choice of profession. She’d gone along with Sven, who thought Annika shouldn’t accept her place at college.

  “It’s a really tough job,” Sven had said. “Confronting people and challenging them isn’t for you. You’re such a soft touch.”

  She got to her feet, annoyed, and walked back to her desk in the newsroom.

  “I’ve had enough of this for today,” she said to Anne Snapphane, and took her bag and left.

  *

  Patricia jumped when the front door opened. Annika was a black silhouette against the sharp light in the stairwell.

  “Were you asleep?“Annika turned on the light.

  Patricia blinked at the light. “I was letting the energies flow.”

  “And I sent them packing,” Annika said with a wan smile.

  Patricia returned the smile. “They’re always there.”

  Annika hung up her things in the hall. Her jacket was wet.

  Patricia sat up on the couch. “Josefin had one of those jackets,” she said, amazed. “Exactly the same.”

  Annika gave a surprised look. “It’s several years old. From H and M, I think.”

  Patricia nodded. “So was Jossie’s. It’s still hanging in the hall in Dalagatan. ‘I’ll always wear this jacket,’ she used to say. She often said stuff like that, big exaggerations. ‘I’ll always.’ ‘I’ll never ever.’ ‘This is the biggest one of all.’ ‘You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.’ ‘I’ll hate him till I die.’ Till I die…”

  Patricia started crying and Annika sat down next to her on the couch.

  “Did you listen to Studio 69?”

  Patricia nodded.

  “What do you think? Was it the minister?”

  Patricia looked down at her hands through the tears. “It could be one of the bigwigs— they left shortly after Jossie. They paid with one of those fancy government cards. And then the Germans— you know what they’re like. Dad often talked about them.”

  Annika stayed silent while Patricia cried. “Everyone important to me dies.”

  “Oh, come on,” Annika tried.

  “First Dad, then Jossie…”

  “Surely that’s not ‘everyone’? What about your mom?”

  Patricia fished out a tissue and blew her nose. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me, calls me a whore. And she’s got the whole family on her side.”

  Annika went to get two glasses of water from the kitchen. She gave one to Patricia.

  “So why do you work there?”

  “Joachim thinks I’m good in the bar,” she said defiantly. “And I make good money— I put away ten thousand every month. When I’ve got enough, I’m going to open a shop. I already know what I’m going to call it, The Crystal. I checked it. The name’s available. I’m going to sell tarot cards and tell people’s fortunes, help people find the right path—”

  “You’ve seen the minister in the photographs. Was he with those guys at the club?“Annika interrupted.

  Patricia shrugged. “They all look the same, you know.”

  Annika recognized her words, she’d heard them somewhere else before. She looked at the woman on the couch. Doubtless, she avoided looking at the men altogether.

  “Did the police ask you about this?”

  “Of course. They’ve asked about everything a million times.”

  “What, for example?”

  Patricia got to her feet, irritated. “Everything, a thousand different things. I’m tired now. Good night.”

  She quietly closed the door to her room behind her.

  Eighteen Years, Eleven Months, and Five Days

  We don’t know where we’re headed. The truth that was behind the clouds has drifted off into space. I can’t see it any longer, can’t even sense its presence.

  He cries over the emptiness. All I feel is flat and cold. I’m unmoved: indifferent, sterile.

  Resignation is next door to failure. The will that is either too strong or too weak; the love that is either too demanding or too pale.

  I can’t back out now.

  We are, despite everything,

  the most important thing there is

  to each other.

  Tuesday 7 August

  She’s got to go,” said the first one.

  “How do we get rid of her?” said the second one.

  “Shoot her?” said the third.

  The men from Studio 69 were sitting around her kitchen table. Annika wasn’t going to stay on at the newspaper, that much was clear.

  “But you haven’t asked me!” Annika called out.

  They continued mumbling among themselves at the table, and Annika couldn’t catch their words.

  “Hey, listen!” she called to them.
“Maybe I don’t want to go with you! I don’t want to go to Harpsund!”

  “Do you want some breakfast?”

  When Annika opened her eyes, she was looking straight at Patricia.

  “What’s that?”

  Patricia’s hands flew up to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, you were still sleeping. I thought… You were talking. It must have been a dream.”

  Annika closed her eyes and smoothed back her hair. “Weird.”

  Annika got out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and padded down to the toilet. She returned just as Patricia was pouring out coffee.

  “Didn’t you sleep well?”

  Annika sat down with a sigh. “They make their decision today.”

  “I think they’ll let you stay on.” Patricia smiled.

  Annika pondered. “I have a chance. I’m a member of the Union of Journalists, so I’ve got them behind me. Even if the senior editors have been influenced by Studio 69, the union will back me up.”

  She had a bite of her roll, her expression lighting up. “Of course, that’s what’ll happen. It’s possible the bosses will want to drop me, because they’re really out of touch. But the union will stand up for me.”

  “There you go,” Patricia said, and this time Annika returned the smile.

  *

  The rain had stopped. Nevertheless, his first breath filled his lungs with dampness. The fog was so dense he could barely make out his rental car.

  He stepped out onto the crunching gravel, dropping the heavy door behind him. The sounds were muffled, as if wrapped in cotton wool. He passed his hand through the veils. They danced.

  He walked around the house and emerged at the back. You couldn’t guess that the lake was only a few hundred yards away. He knew the fog would lift during the morning, but if he was to get any fresh air today, it would have to be now.

  A car drove past in the road, but he couldn’t see it.

  Talk about a perfect hiding place, he thought.

  He sat down on a park bench and the damp immediately penetrated the seat of his pants. He didn’t care.

  The feeling of failure burned in his lungs as he drew deep, misty breaths. The view over the lake was as clear as his future. The prime minister was unwilling to discuss what he’d be doing after it was all over. All his energy was now aimed at salvaging the election campaign. Nothing must jeopardize that. The prime minister would get rid of him today in a public axing, on some invented pretext, and he’d grovel to the media. The amoebas, as he called them, controlled the election campaign, and it took precedence over everything else.

  Except the truth, he reflected.

  This realization had the same effect on his future as if the sun had suddenly broken through the thick clouds and made the fog lift in a moment.

  It was that simple!

  He suddenly laughed out loud.

  He could choose to do damn well anything he wanted.

  As long as no one found them out.

  His laughter froze, the fog swallowed and drowned it.

  *

  “He resigned,” Anne Snapphane hollered. “The news flash just came in from TT.”

  Annika dropped her bag on the floor. “And?”

  ” ‘At a press conference the prime minister announced that the minister for foreign trade has resigned,’” Anne read on her screen. ” ‘The prime minister expressed regret at Christer Lundgren’s decision but understands his motives.’”

  “Which were?” Annika sat down at her own desk and switched on her computer.

  “Family reasons.”

  “Of course he’d say that. They always say that. But it’s not that straightforward.”

  “Oh, you,” Anne said, “you’re just imagining things.”

  “And what’s the alternative? That he really is the murderer?”

  “There’s a lot that’s pointing toward that now.”

  Annika didn’t respond. She clicked onto the list of cable copy on the TT page on her computer. They had already reached “Minister resigns 5.” No one had been able to get hold of Christer Lundgren himself for a comment. The prime minister had once again pointed out that the minister wasn’t suspected of any form of criminal act and that the police interviews had been routine.

  “So why did he resign?” Annika muttered.

  She read that an internal committee was at present looking at the former minister’s receipt from Studio 69.

  She let go of the mouse, leaned back in her chair, and looked out over the newsroom. “So where are all the führers?”

  “At the recruitment meeting,” Anne said.

  Annika’s heart jumped. “I’m getting some coffee,” she said abruptly, and got to her feet.

  Jesus, I’m so nervous, she thought.

  She went to get a copy of today’s paper, opened it to page six and seven, and burst out laughing.

  She was looking at a photograph of a small cat sitting on a dark green, plastic mattress in a jail cell. He was wide-eyed and dazed, maybe from the camera flash. The tip of his tail lay neatly on top of his front paws.

  “Puss on Death Row” read the headline across all of page seven.

  “It’s a good thing that the media, at least once in a while, takes on the really important issues,” Annika said when she’d pulled herself together.

  “We’re getting a storm of protests from the readers,” Anne said. “My assignment for the day is to choose where Puss’s new home will be.” She waved a big bundle of telephone message notes in the air. “The switchboard will sift out all callers outside of Östergötland. How does Arkösund sound to you? Does Puss look like an archipelago cat to you?”

  Anne leaned forward, studied the picture for a few seconds, and gave the answer herself. “Nah. I don’t see him as a herring lover. I think he likes mice and birds. Haversby sounds like a real rat-hole, doesn’t it? Is that where he should go?”

  Annika got to her feet again, fidgety.

  Why didn’t Christer Lundgren attend his own press conference? And how come the prime minister announced his resignation and not him? Didn’t he want to resign? Or did the election campaign managers think he’d shoot his mouth off?

  Both, perhaps, Annika thought. In any case, it all pointed to some kind of cover-up.

  She walked over to the bulletin board; the recruitment meeting had started at ten o’clock. They should be done soon. She needed to go to the bathroom, again.

  When she came out, she saw Bertil Strand standing talking to Picture Pelle over by the picture desk. She knew that the photographer sat on the executive committee of the local branch of the union. They must have taken part in the meeting. Without being aware of it, she half ran over to him.

  “What’s the decision?” she said, out of breath.

  Bertil Strand slowly turned round. “The union executive is united,” he said coldly. “We think you should leave immediately. Your careless way of handling the public has compromised the credibility of the entire newspaper.”

  Annika wasn’t taking it in. “But, do I get to stay on?”

  He narrowed his eyes. His voice became icy cold. “Aren’t you listening? You should leave right away.”

  The blood drained from Annika’s face. She had to grab hold of the photo desk to keep from falling over. “Leave?”

  Bertil Strand turned away and she let go of the table. Oh, dear God, get me away from here, Jesus Christ, how do I get out, I’m going to throw up. The whole newsroom was heaving up and down, the walls were swaying.

  Rage surged up inside her, crimson and razor-sharp.

  Shit, she thought. I’ve had it with these idiots. I’m not the one who’s been behaving like an ass. It’s not my fault the paper is going to hell. How can they say that to me, my own union representatives!

  “How dare you?” she said to Bertil Strand.

  The man’s back stiffened.

  “It’s people like me who pay for your dinners with the executive committee,” she said. “You’re supposed to be there for me. How th
e hell can you stab me in the back like this?”

  He turned around again. “You’re not a regular member of this union branch,” he said tersely.

  “No, because I don’t have a permanent job. But I pay exactly the same dues as everybody else. How come I don’t have the same rights? How the hell can the union recommend firing one of its own members? Are you completely out of your minds?”

  “Don’t say anything you might regret,” the photographer said, his gaze drifting away above her head.

  She took a big step nearer to him, making him take a frightened step back.

  “It’s you who should watch what you say,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve made some mistakes, but none as big as the one you’re making right now.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anders Schyman walking toward his fish tank with a mug of coffee in his hand. She fixed her gaze on the back of his head and set off toward him. Computers, people, bookshelves, and plants moved past like fragments until she was face-to-face with him.

  “Are you kicking me out?” she said, her voice much too shrill.

  The deputy editor steered her into his room and drew the curtains. She flopped onto the tobacco couch and stared at him.

  “Of course we aren’t.”

  “The union wants to,” she said, her voice trembling. Don’t start blubbering now, she thought.

  Schyman nodded, then sat down next to her on the couch. “I just can’t make them out. They don’t give a damn about their members. All they want is power.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Why are you saying this to me?”

  He looked at her calmly. “Because that’s what it’s about in this case.”

  She blinked.

  “Unfortunately, the truth is there’s no opening for you at the moment. We can’t hire everybody who’s good, and there’s only one available contract this fall.”

  “Oh, let me guess, that went to Carl Wennergren?”

  “Yes.” The deputy editor looked at the floor.

  Annika laughed. “Well, congratulations! This newspaper certainly backs the people it deserves.” She stood up.

  “Please sit down.”

  “Why should I? There’s no reason for me to stay in this building for another second. I’ll be leaving immediately, just like the union wants me to.”