Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  “No shit?” Annika said, and realized how far out of the news loop she was already.

  “Come back after three o’clock.”

  Annika turned on her heel and walked away across Norrbro. She looked at her watch. She had over an hour to kill. The rain had stopped, so she decided to take a quick walk up to South Island. She had run regularly in Turkey, feeling the need and enjoying the calm that returned to her body. Now she walked fast and vigorously through Old Town and over to the steps around Mosebacke Square. With her bag across her chest, she ran up and down the steps until her pulse was beating fast and she was dripping with sweat. She paused at the top of Klevgränd and looked out over Stockholm: the narrow alleys cutting in between the Skeppsbro facades; the white hull of the af Chapman sparkling in the water; the light-blue roller coaster of Gröna Lund, resting against the green foliage like a tangled ball of yarn.

  I really have got to find a way to stay here, she thought.

  *

  By five to three, all the cars in front of the Arvfurstens Palace were gone.

  “I’d like to know something about how the cabinet ministers arrange their travels,” Annika said politely to the Foreign Ministry lady behind the counter. Annika felt a bead of perspiration run along the root of her nose and quickly wiped it off.

  The woman raised her eyebrows slightly. “Oh,” she said in a disdainful tone of voice. “And may I ask who’s asking?”

  Annika smiled. “I’m not obliged to prove my identity. You don’t even have the right to ask me. But you are obliged to answer my questions.”

  The woman stiffened.

  “So what happens when a cabinet minister wants to travel?” Annika asked in her silkiest voice.

  The woman’s voice was frosty around the edges. “The minister’s assistant books the tickets through the agency that has the government contract. At present Nyman and Schultz has that remit.”

  “Do the ministers have their own travel budgets?”

  The woman sighed soundlessly. “Yes, naturally.”

  “Right. Then I’d like to make a request to look at an official document. An invoice with a credit card slip handed in by the former minister for foreign trade Christer Lundgren on the twenty-eighth of July this year.”

  The woman could barely conceal her delight. “No, that will not be possible.”

  “Oh, no? Why not?”

  “Because the minister for foreign trade falls under the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications, not the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which he or she did until the current prime minister took over. The prime minister transferred questions concerning the promotion of export trade from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs got asylum and immigration matters instead.”

  Annika blinked. “So the minister for foreign trade doesn’t hand in his invoices here at all?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Not for entertainment expenses or anything?”

  “No.”

  Annika was at a loss. The studio reporter on Studio 69 had claimed they’d found the receipt from the strip joint at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, she was absolutely sure of that. The entire program resonated like a stubborn tune in her head, whether she wanted it to or not.

  “Where is the Ministry of Industry, Employment, and Communications?”

  Annika got the directions and walked past the Museum of Mediterranean and Near East Antiquities to 8 Fredsgatan. She found the equivalent civil servant and asked, “A traveling-expenses invoice and an entertainment invoice from July twenty-eighth this year. Will it take long?”

  The registry clerk was a friendly and efficient woman. “No, it won’t take long. Come back in an hour and we’ll have it ready for you. But don’t come any later, as we’ll be closed.”

  Annika went up to Drottninggatan and had a look around. There was a light drizzle, and a mass of black clouds behind the Parliament building signaled heavier rain later in the evening. She strolled around, indifferently looking at the music, posters, and cheap clothes on offer. It was all beyond her, she was flat broke. The impulsive flight up to Piteå had cleaned her out.

  She walked down the mall toward Klarabergsgatan. She went into a vile American coffee place and ordered ice water. They wanted five kronor for a glass of tap water. Annika swallowed her cutting remark and dug into her pocket. The rain had gotten heavier and it was worth spending the money to avoid getting soaked.

  She sat down at the bar and had a look around. The café was full of trendy people with their cappuccinos and espressos. Annika took a sip of water and chewed on an ice cube.

  So far she’d resisted the thought, but now it was inescapable. By resigning voluntarily from Katrineholms-Kuriren, she wasn’t getting any unemployment benefits for a month and no more money was coming in from Kvällspressen.

  But my expenses aren’t that high, she thought. She began listing them.

  Her rent was only 1,970 kronor a month, and now she had a roommate. Food didn’t have to be that much, she could eat pasta. She didn’t need a monthly travel ticket. She could buy reduced-rate tickets, walk or sneak in on the subway. She had to have a telephone, that was a priority. Forgoing clothes and makeup was no big sacrifice, at least not for a while.

  I need a part-time job, she thought.

  “Is this chair taken?”

  A guy with two-tone hair and wearing mascara was standing in front of her.

  “No, go ahead,” Annika mumbled.

  She took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. That didn’t cost anything.

  *

  Fifty minutes later she was back at the office in Fredsgatan. The registry clerk went inside to collect the papers. She returned with a concerned look on her face.

  “I couldn’t find any travel-expenses invoices for that date, but here’s the entertainment invoice.”

  She gave Annika a copy of the invoice. The receipt from Studio 69 was for 55,600 kronor and was specified as “entertainment and refreshments.”

  “Jesus,” Annika said.

  “I think they may have trouble getting that past the auditors,” the clerk said without looking up.

  “Have a lot of people asked to see this?”

  The woman hesitated. “Not that many, actually.” She looked up. “We thought a lot would, but so far only a handful have asked for it.”

  “But there’s no travel-expenses invoice?”

  The woman shook her head. “I checked both the preceding and the following weeks.”

  Annika thought a moment. She looked at the sprawling signature on the credit card slip. “Could he have handed in his travel-expenses invoice at another ministry?”

  “The minister for foreign trade? I doubt it. It would still end up here.”

  “What about some other public authority? He travels a lot, lobbying for different organizations and companies, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, I suppose. Maybe the companies pay. I don’t know.”

  Annika persisted. “But if he was traveling on behalf of the government and the invoices weren’t handed in here, then where?”

  The woman’s phone rang. Annika noticed her tense up.

  “I’m sorry, I honestly don’t know,” the woman said. “Keep the copy, it’s on me.”

  Annika thanked her and left the woman to answer the call.

  *

  The apartment was quiet and still. She went straight to Patricia’s room and peeped in.

  “Annika!”

  To her surprise, Patricia sounded frightened, and she entered the room.

  “What is it?” Annika smiled.

  Patricia jumped up, threw herself around Annika’s neck, and cried.

  “Jesus, what’s wrong?” Annika said worriedly. “Has something happened?”

  Patricia’s hair got tangled up in her eyelashes, and she carefully tried to remove it so that she could see.

  “You didn’t come home. You didn’t spend
the night at home, and your boyfriend came here and asked where you were. I thought… something had happened.”

  Annika stroked Patricia’s hair tenderly. “Silly. What would happen to me?”

  Patricia let go of Annika and wiped her nose on her T-shirt. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “I’m not Josefin,” Annika said, smiling. “You don’t need to worry yourself over me.” She had to laugh. “Come on, Patricia, snap out of it! You’re worse than my mom. Do you want some coffee?”

  Patricia nodded and Annika went out into the kitchen.

  “Toast?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Annika set out evening coffee while Patricia put on a sweat suit. The mood at the table was a bit quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” Patricia said, spreading marmalade on a piece of toast.

  “Don’t worry. You’re just a bit on edge, that’s all.”

  They ate in silence.

  “Are you moving out?” Patricia asked timidly after a while.

  “Not right now. Why?”

  Patricia shrugged. “Just wondering…”

  Annika poured more coffee. “Has there been much in the papers about Josefin while I’ve been away?” She blew at the hot drink.

  Patricia shook her head. “Hardly anything. The police say that suspicions point in one direction but that they won’t be arresting anyone. Not at the moment, at least.”

  “And everybody’s interpretation is that the minister is guilty?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Have they written a lot about him?”

  “Even less. It’s as if he died rather than resigned.”

  Annika sighed. “Never kick a man when he’s down.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how they reason— you stop digging when someone accepts the consequences of his actions and resigns. What else have they been writing about while I was gone?”

  “They said on Rapport that the voters are abandoning the polls. A lot of people don’t want to vote because they lack faith in the politicians. It’s possible the Social Democrats will lose the election.”

  Annika nodded, it made sense. A minister suspected of murder in the middle of an election campaign was a nightmare.

  Patricia wiped her fingers on a piece of paper towel and began clearing the table.

  “Have you spoken to the police lately?”

  Patricia stiffened. “No,” she said.

  “Do they know you’re here?”

  The woman got up and went over to the counter. “I don’t think so.”

  Annika also got up. “Perhaps you should tell them. They might want to talk to you about something, and no one at the club knows you’re staying here, right?”

  “Please don’t tell me what to do,” Patricia replied curtly.

  She turned her back and put a pan on the stove to heat water for the dishes.

  Annika went back to the table and for a while sat watching the woman’s back.

  Well, go ahead and sulk, she thought, and went into her room.

  *

  The rain rattled hysterically on the windowsill. Will it never stop? Annika thought, and sank down on her bed. She lay on top of the bed without switching on the light. The room was dark and gray. She stared at the worn wallpaper, yellowed with a gray pattern.

  It all has to come together somehow, she thought. Something happened just before the twenty-seventh of July that made the minister for foreign trade take a flight from Terminal 2 at Arlanda, so jittery and stressed-out that he didn’t even notice his relatives calling out to him. Or he ignored them. The Social Democrats must have been in a real panic.

  But it could have been something private, Annika suddenly realized. Maybe he wasn’t on a government or party errand at all. Maybe he had a mistress somewhere.

  Could it be that simple?

  Then she remembered her grandmother.

  Harpsund, she thought. If Christer Lundgren had committed a private indiscretion, the prime minister would never have let him use his summer residence as a hiding place. It had to be something political.

  She stretched out on her back, put her hands behind her head, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. She heard the clatter of the crockery; Patricia was puttering about in the kitchen.

  Structure, she mused. Sort through what you’ve got. Start at the beginning. Toss out everything that’s wishful thinking— be logical. What actually did happen?

  A minister resigns following suspicions of murder, and not just any murder— a sex murder in a cemetery. Suppose the man is innocent. Say he was somewhere completely different on the morning when the woman was raped and killed. Suppose he’s got a watertight alibi.

  Then why the hell doesn’t he clear his name? His life is ruined; politically he’s washed-up, socially he’s poison.

  There can only be one explanation, Annika thought. My first idea holds up: his alibi is even worse than the crime.

  Okay, even worse— but for whom? For himself? Not likely. That would be close to impossible.

  Only one alternative remains: worse for the party.

  Right, so she’d reached a conclusion.

  What about the rest? What could be worse for the party than having a minister suspected of murder in the middle of an election campaign?

  She squirmed restlessly on the bed, turned on her side, and stared out into the room. She heard Patricia open the front door and walk down the stairs, probably to have a shower.

  The realization came like a puff of wind in her brain.

  Only the loss of power was worse. Christer Lundgren did something that night that would lead to the Social Democrats losing power if it came to light. It had to be something fundamental, something crucial. What could pull the rug out from under the governing party’s feet?

  Annika sat bolt upright. She remembered the words, played them back in her brain. She went out to the telephone in the living room, sat down on the couch with the phone on her lap. She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths.

  Anne Snapphane still talked to her even though she’d been thrown out. Berit Hamrin might also look on her as a colleague even if she’d stopped working there. If she didn’t try, she’d never know.

  Resolutely she dialed the number to the Kvällspressen switchboard. She spoke in a squeaky voice when she asked for Berit, not wanting the operator to recognize her.

  “Annika, how nice to hear from you!” Berit said cordially. “How are things?”

  Annika’s heart slowed down.

  “Thanks, I’m fine. I’ve been to Turkey for a couple of weeks. It was really interesting.”

  “Writing about the Kurds?” Berit thought like a journalist.

  “No, just a vacation. Listen, I’ve got a couple of questions concerning IB. Do you have time to meet up for a chat?”

  If Berit was surprised, she wasn’t letting it show. “Yes, sure. When?”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  They agreed to meet at the pizzeria near the paper in half an hour’s time.

  Patricia came back in, dressed in her sweat suit and with her hair wrapped in a towel.

  “I’m going out for a while.” Annika got to her feet.

  “I forgot to tell you something. Sven said he was staying here for a few days.”

  Annika went over to the coatrack. “Are you working tonight?” she said as she put her coat on.

  “Yeah, why?”

  *

  It was pouring rain. Annika’s umbrella was twisted by the wind, so when she stumbled through the door of the restaurant, she was soaked to the skin. Berit was already there.

  “How nice to see you.” Berit smiled. “You’re looking well.”

  Annika laughed and wriggled out of her wet coat. “Leaving Kvällspressen does wonders for one’s health. What’s it like these days?”

  Berit sighed. “Bit of a mess, actually. Schyman is trying to give the paper an overhaul, but he’s meeting a lot of resistance from the rest of the senior editors
.”

  Annika shook her wet hair and pushed it back. “In what way?”

  “Schyman wants to set up new routines, have regular seminars about the direction of the paper.”

  “I get it. The others are in an uproar, whining that he’s trying to turn Kvällspressen into Swedish Television, right?”

  Berit nodded and smiled. “Exactly.”

  A waiter took their insignificant order, a coffee and a mineral water. He walked away unimpressed.

  “So just how badly are the Social Democrats doing in the election campaign?” Annika wondered.

  “Badly. They’ve fallen from forty-five percent in the opinion polls last spring to below thirty-five percent.”

  “Because of the IB affair or the strip-club business?”

  “Probably a combination of both.”

  Both the glass and the cup were placed on the table with unnecessary force.

  “Do you remember our talk about the IB archives?” Annika said when the waiter was gone.

  “Of course. Why?”

  “You thought the original foreign archive still exists. What exactly makes you think that?” Annika sipped at her mineral water.

  Berit gave it some thought before answering. “Several reasons. People’s political affiliations had been put on a register before, during the war. The practice was forbidden after the end of the war, and much later Minister for Defense Sven Andersson said that the wartime archives had ‘disappeared.’ In reality, they had been at the Defense Staff Headquarters’ archive. This was made public a few years ago.”

  “So the Social Democrats have lied about vanished archives before.”

  “That’s right. And then, a year or two later, Andersson said that the IB archives were destroyed back in 1969. The latest version is that they were burned just before the exposure of IB in 1973. But the destruction was never entered in any official records, either domestic or foreign.”

  “And if the records had been destroyed, it would have been documented?”

  Berit drank some of her coffee and made a face. “Yuck, this isn’t exactly freshly made. Yes, IB was a standard Swedish bureaucratic organization. There are a lot of their documents in the Defense Staff Headquarters’ intelligence archive. Everything was entered in a daybook, including reports of destroyed documents. There isn’t one about these archives, which probably means that they’re still there.”