Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

by Liza Marklund

  He would bring it up with the reporter.

  The story about the minister wasn't that strange. Ministers could be interviewed for information in connection with various crimes. Personally, he thought the radio program had gone too far in singling out Christer Lundgren as a suspect. As far as he understood, nothing indicated this was the case. Still, a paper like Kvällspressen had to cover the story.

  Schyman sighed.

  He might as well get used to it.

  ***

  Nobody came to the door. Annika pushed the doorbell over and over, but the woman pretended not to be at home. Through the mail drop she could hear the panting dog and the woman's heavy steps.

  "I know you're in there!" she called through the mail drop. "I just want to ask a few questions. Please open the door!"

  The footsteps disappeared but she could still hear the dog. She waited another five minutes.

  Stupid woman, Annika thought. She rang Daniella Hermansson's doorbell instead. The young mother opened the door, the child on her arm and a bottle in her hand. "Oh, hi!" Daniella said cheerily. "Come in! The place is a mess, but you know what it's like when you have kids."

  Annika mumbled something and stepped into the dark hallway. The apartment was long and narrow, meticulously decorated and tidy. Straight ahead were a mirror wall and a rustic-style chest of drawers, a vase of wooden tulips on top. Annika winced when she caught a glimpse of her own face. She looked pale and the skin was taut over her cheekbones. She quickly looked away and took off her shoes.

  "Isn't it a marvelous summer we're having?" Daniella chirped from the kitchen. "Feel free to look around, see what our apartment looks like."

  Annika dutifully had a quick look at the bedroom facing the yard and the living room facing the street. She said it was a lovely apartment. Do you own or rent, it must have been expensive. No- really? What a bargain!

  "It's horrible, this thing with Christer Lundgren," Daniella said while the coffeemaker spluttered next to them on the kitchen table. The child clung to Annika's legs and dribbled on her skirt. She tried to ignore him.

  "How do you mean?" She bit into a cracker.

  "As if he'd be a murderer? It's so silly. Sure, I know he's tightfisted, but he's no killer."

  "It sounds like you know him personally."

  "Of course I do," the woman said, offended. "He's put off the repairs to the facade for a year now. Milk and sugar?"

  Annika blinked. "I'm sorry. I'm not following you."

  "It isn't really his apartment. It belongs to some Social Democratic local paper in Luleå. He's the chairman of the board and he's been using their overnight apartment. He's a real cheapskate." Daniella topped up Annika's cup.

  "You mean he lives in this building!" Annika exclaimed.

  "Left stairwell on the fifth floor. He's got a four hundred square foot studio apartment with a balcony. Nice little place. Our apartments are close to fifteen hundred kronor a square foot, you know."

  Annika finished her second cup of coffee and leaned back.

  "Jesus. Fifty yards from the murder scene."

  "More coffee?"

  "Tightfisted, you said. In what way?"

  "I'm the secretary of the board of the condominium. Christer used to be a member of the board. Every time we'd discuss any form of improvements or repairs, he'd oppose them. He absolutely doesn't want the charges to go up. I think it's pathetic. He doesn't even pay for his apartment like the rest of us but is sponging off the party paper. All he pays is the monthly charge- Hello, Skruttis, so you want your momma now?"

  Daniella took her son into her arms. He immediately tipped over his mother's cup so that the hot drink flowed over the table and down onto Annika's lap. It didn't burn her but made yet another stain on her skirt.

  "It's okay," Annika said.

  When Daniella came running with an evil-smelling dishcloth and tried to wipe her skirt, Annika quickly retreated to the hallway and put her shoes on.

  "I have to go," she said, and left the apartment.

  "I'm sorry, Skruttis didn't mean to do it…"

  Annika took the stairs to the ground floor and pushed the button for the left elevator. It wasn't working. She groaned and started walking up the stairs. By the time she reached the fourth floor she was exhausted. She had to stop to catch her breath.

  I should start taking vitamins, she thought.

  She tiptoed up the last set of steps, breathing soundlessly with her mouth open while studying the eight apartment doors. Hessler. Carlsson. Lethander & Son Trading Co. Lundgren. Her eyes landed on the minister's mail slot. The nameplate was handwritten and taped to the mail slot. She approached the door slowly, listening for any noise. She placed her finger on the doorbell, hesitated. Instead she opened the mail slot. Warm air from inside the apartment washed over her face.

  At that moment a telephone rang somewhere behind the door. Frightened, she dropped the slot, which closed without a sound. She put her ear against the door. The ringing signal wasn't repeated, so someone must have answered the phone. She caught the sound of a man's mumbling voice. Sweat trickled down her upper lip and she wiped it off with the back of her hand. She looked at the mail slot. She shouldn't be doing this.

  But then the Social Democrats carried out burglaries and bugged people, she thought. So I can eavesdrop a little.

  She stooped down and opened the mail slot again. The air hit her in the face. She turned her head and put her ear against the slot; the draft made a whistling sound.

  "They want me to go back for another interview," she thought she heard the man's voice say.

  Silence. She shifted her head to hear better.

  "I don't know. It's not good."

  New silence. The sweat trickled between her breasts. When the voice returned again, it was louder, more agitated.

  "What the hell do you want me to do? The girl's dead!"

  Annika shifted position to be more comfortable, going down on her knees. She thought she heard someone clearing his throat and steps, then the voice again, but softer now.

  "Yes, yes, I know. I won't say anything… No, I'll never confess. Who the hell do you take me for?"

  The door opposite, Hessler, opened slowly. Annika's heart jumped and she quickly and clumsily got to her feet. She resolutely put her finger on the doorbell and glanced at Hessler. The man had to be close to eighty years old, with a small white dog on a lead. He eyed Annika suspiciously.

  Annika gave him a big smile. "Isn't it hot?"

  The man didn't answer but walked over to the elevator.

  "It's not working, I'm afraid." Annika pushed the doorbell again.

  She focused on the gleaming spot in the middle of the peephole. Suddenly it went dark. Someone had got in the way of the light. She looked straight ahead at the peephole, trying to look reassuring. No one opened the door. She rang the bell again. The peephole gleamed brightly again. Nothing happened. She rang the bell for the fourth time.

  "Hello?" she called through the mail slot. "My name is Annika Bengtzon and I'm from Kvällspressen. Could I ask you a few questions?"

  Huffing and puffing, old man Hessler began walking downstairs, the dog straining at its lead ahead of him.

  She rang the bell again.

  "Go away," a voice said from inside the apartment.

  Annika started breathing faster and realized she desperately needed the bathroom.

  "You'll only make it worse for yourself if you don't make any comments," she said, and swallowed.

  "Bullshit."

  She closed her eyes and breathed. "I'm sorry, could I borrow your bathroom?"

  "What?"

  She crossed her legs. Daniella's weak coffee threatened to burst her bladder.

  "Please! I really need to go," she pleaded.

  The door opened. "I've never heard that one before."

  "Where is it? Please."

  He pointed at a light green door to the left. She staggered inside and pulled the door closed behind her. She sat down on the
toilet, breathing a big sigh of relief. She flushed and washed her hands.

  The apartment was extremely bright and unbearably hot. You could walk all around it from one room into another- from the kitchen into the dining recess, out into the big room and back into the hallway.

  "Now you have to go," the minister said, standing in the doorway.

  She scrutinized the man. He looked tired and pale, dressed in a white, unbuttoned shirt and crumpled black pants. His hair was untidy and he hadn't shaved. Good-looking, Annika thought.

  She smiled. "Thanks. Necessity knows no law."

  The words hung in the air. He turned around and walked inside the room. "Close the door behind you."

  She followed him into the room.

  "I don't think you did it."

  "How did you find me?" he asked, sounding dog-tired.

  "Research."

  He sat down on the bed.

  Annika went up and stood in front of him. "You saw something, didn't you? That's why they're questioning you, isn't it?"

  The minister looked up at her with weary eyes. "Hardly anyone knows where I live. How did you know where to find me?"

  Annika watched the man closely. "You're hiding something, aren't you? What is it you can't talk about?"

  The minister got to his feet suddenly and walked up close to her.

  "You don't know shit. Now go, before I throw you out!"

  Annika swallowed, held up both her hands, and started backing toward the door. "Okay. I'm on my way. Thanks for letting me use the bathroom."

  She quickly left the apartment, quietly shutting the door behind her. She caught up with Hessler on the second floor.

  "Fantastic summer, isn't it?" she said to him.

  ***

  The minister unbuttoned his shirt. He might as well go down to Bergsgatan straightaway. He sighed, sat down on his bed, and tied his shoes.

  The tricks they get up to, he thought, and looked at the door the reporter had disappeared through. The bathroom- my ass!

  He stood up and was in two minds about whether to put on a jacket. He chose one made of light linen.

  How the hell did she find him here? Not even Karina Björnlund knew where he lived when he was in Stockholm. She always called him on his cell phone.

  The telephone rang, the regular one, not his mobile. He answered it immediately. Only a handful of people had this number.

  "How are you?"

  His wife was worried about him. He slumped down on the bed again and to his amazement started to cry.

  "Darling, tell me what's wrong!" She was also crying.

  "Are you with Stina?"

  "We arrived yesterday."

  He blew his nose. "I can't tell you."

  "These terrible stories, I mean, there's nothing to them…"

  He rubbed his forehead with his hand. "How can you even ask me that?"

  "But what am I supposed to think?" Offended, frightened, suspicious.

  "Do you think that I could… kill someone?"

  She hesitated. "Not of your own accord," she said eventually.

  "But if…"

  "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 t
hat'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."