Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed

by Liza Marklund

  Anne began to laugh. Annika swept everything on the desk, including five notepads, two books, and three mugs marked Mariana, into the wastebasket. "Take that, you upper-class bitch."

  Anne laughed so hard she fell off her chair.

  "It wasn't that funny, was it?"Annika said.

  Anne sat up again and tried to stop laughing. "No, it wasn't that funny," she said, chuckling. "It won't take much to make me laugh today. I know that I'm going to be getting out of here."

  Annika stared at her. "You've got a job? Where?"

  "With a TV production company in Hammarby Dock. I'll be researcher on a cable-station talk show aimed at women. It starts in about five weeks. It could be really trashy. I'm really looking forward to it."

  "What if you get a job here?"

  "Christ knows if I want to. Besides, the TV job is a permanent post."

  "Congratulations." Annika walked around the desk to give her friend a hug. "I'm so happy for you!"

  "Hey, could you dykes spare a minute to do some work?"

  Spike was back in the news editor's chair.

  "Shove it, you randy old goat!" Anne shouted at him.

  "Are you crazy?"Annika said under her breath.

  "Who cares? I'm leaving." Anne got up.

  Anne got the assignment, a story about a kitten rescued by the Norrköping police. It had been living at the station for two weeks and now it had to be put to sleep.

  "We've got to get a photo of the stupid cat in a cell," Anne said. "Just imagine the headline: 'Puss on Death Row.'"

  Spike looked at Annika. "I've got nothing for you right now. Stand by for the time being."

  Annika swallowed. She got it. The fridge door had slammed shut.

  "Okay," she said. "I'll read the papers."

  She walked over to the archive shelves and picked up all the Kvällspressen issues since last Friday. She had neither read a paper nor watched TV all weekend. She would never listen to the radio again unless she was forced to.

  She started with Berit's IB piece. Without beating about the bush, the Speaker now admitted he'd used his contacts with Birger Elmér at the IB domestic bureau to escape a military posting, a training assignment, in the autumn of 1966.

  It was in the middle of an election campaign, and the Speaker was the deputy chairman of the Young Social Democrats at the time. The posting came at an inconvenient moment so Elmér set him up with a war job at IB.

  This meant he could go on as usual with his political work, while doing his military service at the same time.

  According to the records that Berit had dug up, the Speaker had been called up for service at the Defense Staff Intelligence Division, which could be another name for the IB. In 1966 he was thirty-three years old and he was never called up again.

  Annika let the paper drop. How did Berit get the Speaker to admit all of this? He'd been denying all involvement for three decades, and now suddenly he'd come clean about everything. Weird.

  The following spread showed some sensational pictures of the arrest of the Ninja Barbies, all of them taken by Carl Wennergren. In the article the readers were told that the group had decided to attack a judge's house in the leafy Stockholm suburb of Djursholm. The judge had recently acquitted a suspected pedophile for lack of evidence. The police had been tipped off and had sent in the terrorist squad. They had evacuated the surrounding houses and set up roadblocks. Parts of the squad had taken up position in the Stockhagen sports field right next to the judge's house; the rest had hidden in the garden.

  The Ninja Barbies were taken completely by surprise and had surrendered after two of the women were shot in the leg.

  The article gave Annika a bad taste in her mouth. Gone was the uncritical reiteration of the Ninja Barbies' grievances that had been the framework of the earlier articles; now the police were the heroes. If any articles in Kvällspressen ever merited analysis, it was these, she thought.

  "We're going to drown in the tears of readers wanting to take care of little Puss," Anne Snapphane said.

  Annika smiled. "What's the cat's actual name?"

  "It said Harry on the collar. Have you had lunch yet?"

  ***

  The minister drove into the little village called Mellösa. He slowed down and looked left through the rain. His turn should be somewhere here.

  A large yellow house appeared in the grayness down by the water, and he slowed further; it didn't seem quite right. The car behind beeped.

  "Calm down, for Christ's sake!" the minister cried out, and slammed on the brakes. The Volvo behind him braked, swerved, and missed him by an inch.

  His rented car coughed and died; the fan hissed and the windshield wipers continued to squeak. He noticed that his hands on the wheel were shaking.

  Jesus! What am I doing? he thought. I can't risk other people's lives just because…

  The irony in his reasoning hit him full force. He started the car and slowly drove on. Two hundred meters farther on he saw the sign: Harpsund 5.

  He turned left and crossed the railway. The road wound past a church, a school, and farms in a landscape that belonged to another time; manor houses with sunporches and fir hedges drifted past in the mist.

  Here the landowners had sucked the working class dry for a thousand years, he mused.

  After a few minutes he drove through the massive stone gateposts that marked the entrance to the prime minister's summer residence. A large, well-kept barn lay on the left, and behind it he glimpsed the main house.

  He parked to the right of the entrance and sat in the car for a moment, looking at the building. It was two stories high with a mansard roof, built in the 1910s. A Caroline pastiche. He fished out his umbrella, opened the car door, and ran to the door.

  "Welcome. The prime minister called. I've prepared some lunch for you." The housekeeper took his wet umbrella and jacket.

  "Thanks, I'm fine. I had lunch on the way. I just want to go to my room."

  The woman didn't express any disappointment. "Of course. This way, please."

  She walked ahead of him up to the second floor and showed him to a room with a view over the lake. "Just call if you want anything."

  The housekeeper closed the door without making a sound, and he took off his shirt and shoes. The prime minister was right- they'd never find him here.

  He sat down on the bed with the telephone on his lap and took three deep breaths. Then he dialed the number for Karungi.

  "It's over," he said when she answered.

  He listened to her for a long time.

  "No, darling," he said. "Don't cry. I'm not going to jail. No, I promise."

  He stared out the window, hoping he wasn't lying.

  ***

  The afternoon dragged. She didn't get any assignments. She took the hint, which wasn't even particularly subtle. She was taken off everything to do with the Josefin murder and the minister suspect. Carl Wennergren got all those jobs.

  In an attack of boredom she called Krim and asked for Q. He actually answered the phone.

  "They were hard on you on the radio last Thursday," he said.

  "They were wrong. I was right. They got the wrong end of the stick."

  "I don't know if I agree," he said genially. "You can be damned pushy."

  "I'm smooth as a ballet dancer!"

  He laughed out loud. "That's not exactly the metaphor that comes to mind when you call," he snorted. "But you can handle that, I expect. You're a tough nut, so you'll take it in your stride. You have to take a few on the chin."

  Amazingly enough, she felt he was right.

  "Now listen," she said, "I have a few questions about the Ninja Barbies."

  He immediately turned serious. "What?"

  "Did they have any cash on them when they were arrested?"

  She heard the police captain draw a breath. "Why the hell do you ask that?"

  She shrugged and smiled. "Just wondering, that's all…"

  He thought about it for a long while. "Do you know anything
about this?" he said in a low voice.

  "Maybe."

  "Well, give it to me, baby."

  She laughed coarsely. "You'd like that, wouldn't you!"

  "They didn't have anything on them."

  Annika's heart started beating faster. "But in the car? At home? In the basement?"

  "In the house of one of them."

  "Like around fifty thousand?" Annika said innocently.

  He sighed. "I wish you'd tell me straight."

  "I could say the same to you."

  "Forty-eight thousand five hundred. In an envelope."

  He'd done it, the bastard!

  "Maybe you could tell me where it came from," he said, trying to sound sweet.

  She didn't reply.

  ***

  When she heard the signature tune to Studio 69, Annika turned off the radio and went down to the canteen. She'd just finished filling a plate with rabbit food from the salad bar when a counter attendant with a prominent perm called out her name.

  "You've got a call," the Perm said.

  It was Anne Snapphane.

  "You should listen to this," she said in a low voice.

  Annika closed her eyes and felt her heart sink deep into her shoes. "Why would I want to listen to them rip me again?"

  "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 mi
nister 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 direction.

  "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?"