"Will you stay the night?" her grandmother asked.
Just then the signature tune to Studio 69 rang out. The old woman reached out to turn the volume down but Annika stopped her.
"Let's hear what they're up to today."
The music faded and the deep bass of the program presenter sounded:
"The police have questioned a man on suspicion of the sex murder of a young woman in Kronoberg Park in Stockholm. The man is said to be Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren. More about this in today's current affairs program with debate and analysis, live from Studio 69."
The signature tune resumed, and Annika put her hands across her mouth. Good God, could it be true?
"What's wrong? You've gone all pale," her grandmother said.
The music faded out and the presenter was back: "Tuesday, July thirty-first. Welcome to Studio 69 from the Radio House in Stockholm." He continued in a somber voice, "Social Democracy in Sweden is facing one of its biggest ever scandals. The minister has been interviewed twice, yesterday over the phone and today at Krim, the criminal investigation department on Kungsholmen. We'll go direct to the police headquarters in Stockholm."
Some rustling static was heard.
"I'm standing here with the police press officer," a male reporter with an authoritative voice said. "What has happened here today?"
Annika turned up the volume. The voice of the press officer filled the kitchen.
"It's true that the police are following certain leads in the hunt for Josefin Liljeberg's murderer. However, I can't give you any details. Nobody has been arrested even if our interviews are pointing in one particular direction."
The reporter wasn't listening. "A minister suspected of having committed this kind of crime in the middle of an election campaign- what's your comment on that?"
The press officer hesitated. "Well, I can neither confirm nor deny anything at the moment. No one has as yet been-"
"But the minister was here today for an interview?"
"Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren is one of several persons that have been interviewed in the line of the ongoing investigation, that's correct," the press officer answered mechanically.
"So you will confirm that the interviews have taken place?" the reporter said in a triumphant tone.
"I can confirm that we have carried out around three hundred interviews in the investigation so far." The press officer sounded as if he was beginning to sweat a bit.
"What did the minister have to say in his defense?"
The press officer was becoming annoyed. His pager started bleeping. "As everyone must understand, I can't comment on what has been said in any interviews during an ongoing police investigation."
The control room cut in and the program presenter reappeared. "We're back in Studio 69 at Radio House in Stockholm. Now, this will naturally give the Social Democrats a run for their money during the election campaign, even if the minister isn't guilty of the crime. The mere fact that a cabinet minister should figure in this kind of context is devastating for the party image. We will be discussing this in today's edition of Studio 69."
A jingle played, and when the presenter returned, he had a guest in the studio, a poor excuse for a media professor. Annika knew him by reputation. He had got the post through having worked as the politically appointed editor in chief of the labor movement newspaper that also ran Sweden's biggest printing house for pornographic material.
"Well," said the professor, "this is of course a downright disaster for Social Democracy. The mere suspicion of this kind of abuse of power puts the party in a very difficult situation. Very difficult, indeed."
"Though we don't know if the minister is guilty, and we won't judge anyone beforehand here," the program presenter pointed out. "But what would happen were he to be arrested?"
Annika got up, her head spinning. So a government minister was involved. The fat woman had been right.
The professor and the studio reporter droned on, occasionally with the involvement of two reporters out on location.
"Does this have anything to do with your job?" Grandmother asked.
Annika gave a wan smile. "You can say that again. I've written quite a lot about this murder. She was only nineteen, Grandma. Her name was Josefin."
The studio reporter sounded serious and confident. "We have not been able to get hold of the minister for foreign trade for a comment. He has been in a meeting with the prime minister and the party secretary all afternoon. Our reporter is outside the Cabinet Office."
Annika opened her eyes wide. "They're wrong!" she exclaimed.
Her grandmother gave her a quizzical look.
"The prime minister- he hasn't been in any meetings. I've got to go back to Stockholm. You have the mushrooms."
"Do you have to?"
Annika hesitated. "No, but I want to."
"Take care of yourself," the old woman said.
They hugged quickly and Annika stepped out into the hot evening sun. Whiskas scampered along the path with her.
"No, go back. You can't come with me. You have to stay with Grandma."
Annika stopped and cuddled the cat for a moment before she pushed him back in the opposite direction.
"Stay there. That's it, go back to Grandma."
The cat ran past her on the path, toward the barrier. Annika sighed, called the cat to her, scooped him up in her arms, and returned with him to the house.
"I think you'll have to shut the front door until I'm gone," Annika said, and her grandmother chuckled.
The wind had picked up and was sweeping down the road, helping Annika along. She pedaled equally hard up and down the hills and was out of breath when she parked the bicycle outside the house on Tattarbacken.
"I heard you were back."
Sven slammed the car door and came walking toward her from the parking lot. Annika locked her bicycle and gave him a pale smile.
"It's only a quick visit."
Sven took her in his arms. "I've missed you," he whispered.
Annika hugged him and he kissed her hard. She withdrew.
"What's wrong?" He let go of her.
"I've got to go back to Stockholm."
The gravel crunched under her feet as she walked over to the street door. She heard him following behind.
"But you just got here. Don't you get any time off at all?"
She pulled the door open. The stairwell smelled of garbage.
"Yes, I'm off right now. But things have happened in the murder case I'm covering."
"And are you the only reporter they have?"
She leaned against the wall, shut her eyes, and thought about it. "I want to go. This is my chance."
He stood in front of her. He placed one hand on each side of her head, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "To get away from here? Is that it?"
She looked him in the eyes. "To get somewhere. I've already written everything there is to write about at Katrineholms-Kuriren: forestry supplements, auctions, municipal meetings, composting reports… I want to move on." She ducked under his arm.
He grabbed her by the shoulder. "I'll drive you."
"That's okay. I'll take the train."
***
The club was empty. Daytime business was slow in this heat. The men could ogle tits for free on the beach. Patricia took a quick look in the register- only three thousand. Five customers all afternoon and evening. Pitiful. She pushed the register closed. Oh, well, they'd make good during the night. The heat got the tourists' blood boiling.
She went into the bare dressing room next to the office and hung up her bag and jeans jacket, pulled off her top and shorts, and put on the sequined bra. Her panties were dirty and she had to remember to wash them before she left tomorrow morning. She quickly put on a thick layer of makeup. She didn't really like wearing it. Her shoes were wearing down; the heel was almost gone on one of them. She did up the straps, took a deep breath, and tripped back to the entrance.
The roulette table was gra
y from cigarette ash on the guests' side; she noticed yet another cigarette burn on the green baize. She removed the ashtray- smoking shouldn't be allowed at the table. She picked up the brush from the shelf on the croupier side and brushed off the ash, up over the edge and down on the floor.
"So the cleaning lady is keeping herself busy."
Joachim was standing in the doorway to the office, leaning against the doorpost.
Patricia stiffened. "It was filthy."
"You shouldn't have to think about that." Joachim smiled at her. "You should only be beautiful and sexy."
He straightened up and approached her slowly, still smiling and with his hand stretched out. Patricia swallowed. He stroked her shoulder and down her arm. She pulled back. His smile died.
"What are you afraid of?" The look in his eyes was totally different now, cold and penetrating.
Patricia looked down at her glittering breasts. "Nothing at all. What makes you think I am?" Her voice wasn't steady.
Abruptly, he let go of her. "You shouldn't believe what you read in the newspapers," he spat.
Patricia looked up with innocent eyes. "Which one of them?"
His gaze rested heavily on her; she made an effort to return it.
"They'll catch him soon," he said.
She blinked. "Who?"
"The minister- they said it on the radio. Those bigwigs that were here that night, he was one of them. He's been interrogated all day. They say the prime minister's mad as hell."
Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know?"
He turned around and walked toward the bar. "They said so on the radio. Studio 69."
He stopped short, looked at her over his shoulder, and smiled again. "Now isn't that just too fitting?"
Part Two
August
Eighteen Years, One Month, and Three Days
L ove is often described in such dull and impassive terms, a monochrome rosy red. But to love another human being can involve all the colors on the palette, vary in strength and intensity, become black or green or a horrible yellow.
This has been hard for me to realize. I've been stuck at the light crystal colors, unable to absorb the stronger colors.
I know he does it to help me, still it shakes me to the core.
His theory is that I've experienced something in my childhood that stops me from letting go sexually. I've tried and tried to think of what it could be, but have come up with nothing.
We experiment to help me move on, united in our love. I sit on top of him, feeling him deep inside of me as he hits me hard in the face with the palm of his hand. I stop short, my eyes full of tears. I ask him why he does that.
He caresses my cheek and pushes hard and deep inside me. It's to help you, he says, hits me again, and then continues hard until he comes.
***
We talk about it in detail afterward- how we're to find the way back to the divine dimension of our relationship. It's lack of trust. I know that. I have to trust him. How else will I ever succeed?
We are the most important thing
there is
to each other.
Wednesday 1 August
Annika walked into the newspaper entrance hall just before 9 A.M. Tore Brand was at reception and gave her a glum greeting.
"Bombs and shootings," he said. "That's all they're interested in at this paper."
He nodded toward the Kvällspressen table of contents that was posted over by the elevator. Annika looked at it. It took her a few seconds to process the information. She felt the floor swaying beneath her feet. It can't be, she thought, grabbing the reception counter and reading the bill again: "Terrorist Act Last Night- Ninja Barbies Taunt the Police."
There was a big photograph of a burning car.
"Who wrote the story?" she whispered.
"Riots and scandals, that's all we do here," Brand muttered.
She walked over to the display and picked up a copy of the paper. Almost the whole front page was devoted to a photo of Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren. Next to him, arm around his shoulders, was the prime minister. Both men were smiling cheerfully. The picture had been taken eight months ago, when the minister was appointed and was being introduced to the media. Annika thought the headline was lame: "Under Fire." Above the newspaper masthead was the headline from the bill, referring to pages six and seven. She opened the paper to the spread with trembling hands. Her eyes flew across the page, looking for the byline. Carl Wennergren.
She let the paper drop.
"Isn't it a damn shame?" Tore Brand said.
"You're damn right it is," Annika said, and walked over to the elevators.
She sat down in the cafeteria with a big mug of coffee and a sandwich. The coffee went cold while she read the two stories, first the one about the Ninja Barbies and then the one about the minister accused of murder.
They got what they were after, she thought, and looked for a long time at the photo of the burning car. The car was turned on its side, the underside facing the photographer, who was Carl Wennergren. The caption noted that the car belonged to a Stockholm police commissioner. Behind the flames you could make out a sixties brick house. The Ninja Barbies got to deliver their puerile and violent message. Not a single critical word appeared in the entire article. Shame on him, she thought. Shame on him, the rotten bastard.
The copy about the minister was better. It took the accusations made on Studio 69 for what they were, unconfirmed allegations of vague suspicions. They hadn't been able to get hold of the minister himself for a comment, but his press secretary, Karina Björnlund, declared that all accusations were pure invention.
Annika didn't know what to think. The police had in fact interviewed Christer Lundgren; the press officer had confirmed that yesterday. But all other statements in the program were definitely wrong. And what about their suspicions about Joachim?
She threw the sandwich in the wastebasket without even removing the wrapping. She drank the cold coffee in three greedy gulps.
Spike was at his post, telephone glued to his ear. He didn't react to Annika' showing up on her day off; it was common for the covers to do that.
"You were way off the mark on the murder," he said as he put the phone down.
"You mean about the minister? The story doesn't make sense," Annika said.
"Oh, doesn't it? Why not?"
"I want to look into that today, if that's all right with you."
"We were lucky to have the scoop on the Ninja Barbies. Or we'd have been forced to make more of the murder and the minister. It would have looked a bit weird to have two different murderers in two days, don't you think?"
Annika turned red. She couldn't think of a response.
Spike's eyes were cold, watchful. "Thanks to Carl we landed on our feet." The news editor spun around in his chair, showing her the back of his balding head.
"Sure. Is Berit in yet?"
"She's gone to Fårö to look for the speaker. The IB scoop," Spike said without turning around.
Annika walked over to her desk and dropped her bag on the floor; her cheeks were burning. She wouldn't be getting a picture byline for a while.
She skimmed through the other papers to see what they had on the minister and the suspicions against him. No one had made a particularly big thing of it. The morning broadsheets only mentioned in brief that Minister Christer Lundgren had been interviewed regarding the murder of a woman in Stockholm. The Rival had given the items the same ranking as Kvällspressen.
How could Studio 69 be so sure of their information? Annika wondered. They've got to have more than they're letting on.
The thought of it made her stomach turn. Why do I feel so guilty? she asked herself.
Despite the air-conditioning, the room was stuffy and hot. She went out to the ladies' room and splashed cold water on her face.
I've got to get this straight, she thought. I've got to get the whole picture. What did I miss?
She leaned her forehead against the mirr
or and closed her eyes. The glass was ice-cold and the chill spread via her sinuses into the bone.
The woman, she thought. The fat woman with the dog, Daniella's neighbor.
She wiped her face dry with a paper towel. She left a sweaty mark on the mirror.
***
The new deputy editor, Anders Schyman, was troubled. Naturally, he was aware of the ethical difficulties that came with his new post, but he would have liked to have had a few days before having to do any acrobatics on the moral trapeze. What was this hysterical story Carl Wennergren had found? A feminist combat group that set fire to cars and sent threatening messages to police officers. What the hell was that? And not a single critical comment, only the extremely predictable statement from the police press officer that they took the incident seriously and had deployed all necessary resources to finding the perpetrators.
The deputy editor sighed and sat down on a couch with an orange flowery pattern that had come with his office. The upholstery reeked so badly of stale smoke that the couch smelled like an ashtray. He stood up again and sat by his desk instead. It was not a nice office. There were no windows; he only got indirect light from the newsroom through the glass walls. Beyond the sports desk he could just make out the contours of a multistory garage. Despondent, he looked at the mountain of boxes that had arrived from Swedish Television the night before.
Jesus, what a lot of crap a man can accumulate, he thought.
He decided to skip the unpacking for the time being. He spread out the paper before him. He slowly read through all the contentious articles. True, he wasn't legally responsible for the publication of the newspaper, but as of today, he knew that he had to learn the mechanisms that shaped it.
Something was not quite right about the terrorist article. How could the reporter be in the right place at exactly the right time? And why would the women speak to him? "He was tipped off about it," Spike had explained to him. That didn't make sense. If the group had wanted maximum publicity, they would have told all the media. But they wouldn't have had any control over the material. They must have made some kind of deal or made some special demands.
Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed Page 15
