"First they rape and kill each other at home, then they come over here and strangle our girls. Take that dead girl in the park, for example."
At least there was someone who didn't listen to Studio 69.
"Well," Annika said, "I'm not so sure the police share your suspicions."
"See! That's what really pisses me off. The cops are protecting the fuckers!"
"So what do you think should be done about it?" Annika asked in a silky voice.
"Throw them out. Just send them all back to the jungle, goddammit!"
Annika grinned. "I find it a bit hard to share your opinion as I'm black myself."
The man on the phone went quiet. Anne stopped writing and looked up at her, and Annika had problems keeping a straight face.
"I want to talk to someone else," the man said when he'd collected himself.
"Sorry, there's no one else here."
"Who is that idiot you're talking to?" Anne asked.
"There is," the man said. "I can hear another woman in the background."
"Oh, yes, of course, there's Anne. She's Korean. Hang on and I'll put you through to her."
"Oh, fuck it!" the man exclaimed, and hung up.
"What an asshole!" Annika said.
The phone rang again.
"So, I don't have to tell you my name, right?" The voice belonged to a frightened young girl.
"Yeah, sure." Annika said. "What's it about?"
"Well, you know, this TV guy, this program presenter…" The girl gave the name of one of Sweden's most popular and highly esteemed TV journalists.
"What about him?"
"He dresses up in women's clothes and he gropes young girls."
Annika groaned. She'd heard this one before. "People can dress up however they want in this country."
"He goes to sex clubs too."
"And we have freedom of opinion and religion and freedom of association."
The girl on the phone lost the thread. "Oh, so it's nothing you'll write about?"
"Has he done anything illegal?"
"No…"
"Groped, you said. Has he forced himself on anyone?"
"No, not really, they wanted to-"
"Has he bought sexual favors with public money?"
The girl was confused. "What do you mean?"
"Does he buy prostitutes with taxpayers' money?"
"I don't know…"
Annika thanked her for the tip-off and terminated the call. "You're right," she said to Anne. "Loon night."
The tip-off phone rang a third time. Annika grabbed it.
"My name is Roger Sundström and I live in Piteå. Are you busy, or do you have a minute?"
Annika sat down. This crazy man was actually polite.
"I've got time. What's it about?"
"Well," the man said in broad Norrland dialect, "it's about this minister, Christer Lundgren. "They're saying in this radio program, Studio 69, that he was at a strip club in Stockholm, but that's not true."
Annika pricked up her ears; something in the man's voice made her take him seriously. She found a pen beside the keyboard. "Tell me, what makes you think that?"
"Well, we went to Majorca on holiday, the whole family. Silly, 'cause it's been warmer in Sweden than in Spain, but we couldn't have known that when we… Well, anyway, we were on our way back to Piteå. We'd booked flights with Transwede from Stockholm, as they're a bit cheaper…"
A child laughed in the background and Annika heard a woman singing.
"Go on."
"That's when we saw the minister. He was at the airport when we were there."
"When was this?"
"Friday the twenty-seventh, at twenty oh five in the evening."
"How can you be that exact?"
"I remembered it was the time our plane was supposed to leave. It says on my ticket."
Of course! "But what makes you think the minister wasn't at the strip club? The check that the reporters on Studio 69 are talking about was rung up at half past four the following morning. And a neighbor saw him."
"But he wasn't in Stockholm then."
"How do you know?"
"Because he got on the plane. We saw him at the check-in counter. He had a briefcase and a small suitcase."
Annika felt the hair on her neck stand up; this could be important. Yet, she was doubtful. She had to be sure.
"How come you paid such close attention to the minister? How come you recognized him?"
The children in the background started singing a silly song. Roger Sundström gave an embarrassed laugh.
"I tried to talk to him, but he was too stressed-out. I don't think he even registered me."
"Stressed? In what way?"
"He was in a sweat and his hands were shaking."
"It was very hot that day, everyone was sweating."
Sundström patiently replied, "Yes, but he didn't look like he normally does. His eyes were sort of staring."
Annika felt the excitement drop. Sundström was probably imagining things. "How do you mean, staring?"
The man paused. "He was all tense, and he's always so self-assured and relaxed."
"What do you mean 'always'? Do you know him?" That's what she thought he was implying.
"Oh, yes. Christer's married to my cousin Anna-Lena. They live somewhere in Luleå, and their twins are the same age as our Kajsa. We don't meet up very often- the last time was at Granddad's funeral, I think. But Christer sure doesn't look like that normally, not even at funerals."
He fell silent, feeling that Annika didn't believe him.
Annika was at a loss but for the time being decided the man was telling the truth. At least he believed what he was telling her.
"Did you see him on the plane as well?"
Roger Sundström hesitated. "It was one of those big planes and it was packed. No, I don't think I saw him."
Annika closed her eyes and thought about the claim on Studio 69 that there were ten thousand lobbyists in Stockholm; maybe they had a local office in Piteå.
"There's something I want to ask you, Roger, and I want you to be absolutely honest with me. It's extremely important."
"Right, what's that?" Annika sensed a note of suspicion and fear in his voice.
"Did anyone ask you to make this call?"
Again, there was a pause. "Well, I talked it over with Britt-Inger first. She thought I should call you."
"Britt-Inger?"
"My wife."
"And why did your wife think you should call?"
"Because they're wrong on Studio 69." Sundström was getting more assertive. "I called them first, but they wouldn't talk to me. But I know what I saw. Britt-Inger saw him too."
Annika frantically racked her brains. "And nobody else asked you to call?"
"Nobody."
"You're absolutely sure about that?"
"Now listen-"
"Okay," Annika said quickly. "What you're saying is very interesting. It puts the allegations on Studio 69 in a completely different light. I'll see whether I can use it in one way or another in the future. Thank you very much for…"
Roger Sundström had already hung up.
The moment she put the Creepy Calls phone down, her own phone started ringing.
"You've got to help us." It was Daniella Hermansson.
"What's happened?"
"They keep calling Auntie Elna. She's here with me now. There are fifteen journalists with TV cameras and God knows what outside our door, and they won't stop ringing the bell. What can we do?"
Daniella was in a real state. Annika heard the child screaming in the background and assumed her calmest tone of voice.
"You have absolutely no obligation to let anyone in if you don't want to. Neither you, nor Elna, has to talk to any journalists. Are they phoning too?"
"Constantly."
"When we hang up, take the phone off the hook. They'll only get the busy signal. If you feel threatened by the journalists outside your door, call the police."
"The pol
ice? Oh, I daren't."
"Do you want me to do it?"
"Could you? Please…"
"You just hold the line and I'll call them on another phone."
Annika picked up the Creepy Calls phone and dialed the direct number to the police control room.
"Oh, hi, I'm calling from sixty-four Sankt Göransgatan," she said. "The press have invaded. They're scaring the pensioners to death. They're yelling and shouting, ringing on all doors. The people from the radio are the worst. I've got five terrified pensioners with me right now. It's the stairwell to the right, third floor."
She changed receivers. "They're on their way."
Daniella breathed freely again. "Oh, thank you so much. How can I ever thank you? That was really good of you, I'll-"
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
W e 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.
"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.
Studio Sex aka Studio 69 / Exposed Page 23
