‘He’s got an alibi.’
Annika leaned forward in her chair.
‘So it wasn’t …? But it looked like—’
‘It would be nice if you didn’t speculate so much in the bloody press,’ the policeman said. ‘Sometimes you really mess things up.’
Annika blew up. ‘That’s rich, coming from you! Who the hell was it who called a press conference at ten p.m. on Saturday night, just because you were so bloody keen to get the press involved? That’s a load of crap. And what do you mean, “mess things up”? There’s been more than one suspicious death in police custody. So don’t start accusing us of abusing our position!’
‘I don’t have to sit here and listen to crap like this,’ the policeman said, and hung up.
‘Hello?’ Annika shouted into the phone. ‘Hello? Fuck!’
She slammed the phone down, which made Spike look over at her in annoyance.
‘You’re sitting at my desk.’
A woman in a suit, somewhere in her thirties, was looking her up and down critically. Annika looked up, momentarily bewildered.
‘What?’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be off today?’
Annika swung her feet onto the floor, got up and held out her hand.
‘You must be Mariana,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Annika Bengtzon.’
The dragon in the suit had a ridiculously ‘refined’ posh surname, and was supposed to be very talented.
‘I’d be grateful if you could tidy up before you finish a shift. It isn’t nice to be confronted by this sort of thing every time I come back to work.’
‘I quite agree,’ Annika said. ‘I had to clear the bookshelf and the desk of your stuff when I got here on Wednesday.’
She quickly gathered together the notes she had laid out on the desk.
‘I’m going to get some food,’ she said curtly to the head of news, then picked up her bag and walked out.
By the lifts she bumped into Carl Wennergren. He was laughing at something he had just said with a couple of other summer temps. Annika had been wondering how she’d react when she next saw him. She’d been wondering what to say. Now she no longer had to wonder. She stopped, demonstratively in their way.
‘Can I talk to you?’ she said abruptly.
Carl Wennergren puffed out his chest and smiled a smile that lit up his suntanned face. His hair was still wet from his morning swim, his fringe hanging over his forehead.
‘Sure, darling,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
Annika walked down half a flight of the stairs. Carl Wennergren waved off his friends and followed her down, the picture of confidence and composure. She stood with her back to the wall on the small landing and stared angrily at her colleague.
‘I was made an offer on 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 were going to let me tag along when they carried out some sort of attack on the police.’
She was staring intently at Carl Wennergren.
The young man had stopped smiling, and was blushing furiously all the way to his ears. He narrowed his lips to a thin strip.
‘What do you mean?’ he said in a rather strangled voice.
‘How come you got that story in today’s paper?’
Carl Wennergren tossed his hair back.
‘What the hell has that got to do with you?’ he said. ‘Who put you in charge?’
She looked at him without replying. He turned, as if to go back upstairs. Annika didn’t move. After four steps he turned round and came back, coming to a halt just inches from Annika’s face.
‘I didn’t pay a single damn penny,’ he snarled. ‘What the hell do you think I am?’
‘I don’t think anything,’ she said, and noticed that her voice was shaking. ‘I just thought it was all a bit bloody peculiar.’
‘They wanted to get their message out,’ Carl Wennergren snarled, ‘but they weren’t selling the scoop. No newspaper would be stupid enough to pay for a terrorist attack against the police; surely even you can work that out?’
‘So they let you have it for nothing,’ Annika said.
‘Exactly.’
Carl Wennergren spun round and went up the stairs, two steps at a time.
‘Did they wait till you’d got your camera ready before they set fire to the car?’ she called after him.
The reporter vanished into the newsroom without looking back.
Annika carried on down the stairs. Carl Wennergren might be right. There’d be no point in setting fire to cars if no one knew why they were doing it. The Ninja Barbies may just have given him a perfectly ordinary tip-off.
But he hadn’t known that they had already made the offer to her, she was sure of that. That really had stopped him in his tracks.
She walked out of the building, pretending not to hear Tore Brand’s whining.
It was hotter than ever. The sun was blazing down on the turning circle in front of the building and the tarmac was soft. She went over to the hotdog kiosk on Rålambsvägen and got something to eat, which she proceeded to eat standing up.
The early evening news on television had nothing about Josefin, the minister, or the Ninja Barbies in the opening headlines. Maybe they’d appear later in the broadcast, but no one at the Evening Post sat through the programme that long. All activity stopped when the electric guitar of the signature tune to Studio Six came on the radio at three minutes past six. Annika was sitting at Berit’s desk, staring at the radio.
‘The investigation into the murder of nineteen-year-old Josefin Liljeberg is becoming increasingly complex,’ the presenter announced over the noise of the guitar. ‘The young woman was actually a stripper in an infamous sex club. The Minister for Foreign Trade, Christer Lundgren, has been questioned again today. More debate and discussion of this in today’s edition of Studio Six.’
Without looking up, Annika could feel people staring at her from over at the newsdesk. She could feel their hostility burning through the back of her blouse.
‘It’s Wednesday, first August. Welcome to Studio Six in Radio House in Stockholm,’ the presenter’s voice boomed.
‘So, Josefin Liljeberg was a stripper in the infamous sex club that took its name from this very programme, Studio Six. In most of the media, and the Evening Post in particular, she has been portrayed as an innocent family girl who dreamed of becoming a journalist and helping children in trouble. But the truth is completely different. This is a recording of the young woman in question.’
And they played a tape-recording. A young woman’s voice, trying to sound erotic, announced that anyone who was curious and who had a sense of adventure was very welcome to visit Studio Six, Stockholm’s hottest club. She gave the club’s opening hours, from 1 p.m. to 5 a.m. You could meet nice young ladies, offer them champagne, watch a show or a private viewing, or watch and buy erotic films.
Annika was having trouble breathing, and hid her face in her hands. She had had no idea that the voice was Josefin’s.
The programme ran through the details of the murder. The minister had been summoned to Bergsgatan again for more questioning. They played another recording, of a door slamming, then several reporters shouting questions at Christer Lundgren as he walked into Police Headquarters.
Annika stood up, put her bag on her shoulder and went out the back way. The stares directed at her back were pulling all the air from her lungs. She had to get some fresh air before she died.
32
Patricia had set her clock-radio to go off at 5.58 p.m. That meant she’d have time to pee and get some water before Studio Six began.
She had slept deeply and without dreaming, and felt almost drugged as she stumbled back to the mattress. She piled the pillows up against the wall.
She listened in the dark behind her black curtains. Josefin’s curtains.
The man on the radio was tearing Josefin to pieces, managing to spoil every crumb of truth and
making Josefin out to be a bad person. Patricia was in tears.
It was so unfair. She turned the radio off and went into the kitchen. With trembling hands she made a pot of tea. Just as she was pouring the first cup the doorbell rang. It was the journalist.
‘Those bastards!’ Annika Bengtzon said, storming into the flat. ‘How the fuck can they make her out to be some sort of fucking prostitute? It doesn’t make any sense!’
Patricia wiped her tears.
‘Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to have some.’
‘Thanks,’ Annika said, sinking onto a chair. ‘I don’t know what we can do. Maybe report them to the Press Complaints Commission? They can’t be allowed to get away with this!’
Patricia found another mug for the reporter. She didn’t look well. She was even paler and thinner than last time.
‘Would you like a sandwich? I’ve got some Arctic bread.’
That was Josie’s favourite, with Port Salut cheese.
‘No thanks, I’ve been eating all day.’
Annika pushed the mug away and leaned over the table, looking her right in the eye.
‘Have I misunderstood everything, Patricia?’ she wondered. ‘Have I got it wrong in all my articles?’
Patricia gulped and looked down.
‘Not as far as I know,’ she said.
‘Patricia, be honest with me. Have you ever seen that government minister, Christer Lundgren?’
Patricia bit her lip, her tears welling up again.
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe.’
Annika leaned back in her chair in despair.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘So it could be true … A government minister. Fuck!’
She stood up and started pacing up and down the kitchen.
‘It’s still absolutely unforgivable to make out that Josefin was a whore. And playing that tape of her voice, that’s disgusting.’
‘But that wasn’t Josie,’ Patricia said, blowing her nose.
Annika stopped and stared at her in surprise.
‘What? So who the hell was it, then?’
‘Sanna, she sits on the door. It’s her job to look after the answering machine. Drink your tea before it gets cold.’
The journalist sat down again.
‘So the radio guys aren’t as clued up as they’re making out.’
Patricia didn’t answer. She put her hands to her face. Her own life had vanished when Josie’s was snuffed out, to be replaced by an uncontrollable reality that seemed to be dragging her down to new depths every day.
‘This is all just a terrible dream,’ she said, her voice muffled by her hands. She could feel the journalist looking at her.
‘Have you had any sort of help?’ Annika wondered.
Patricia took her hands away from her face, sighed and picked up her mug.
‘How do you mean?’
‘A psychologist, counsellor – anyone like that?’
She looked at the journalist, surprised. ‘Why should I?’
‘Maybe you could use some help from someone?’
Patricia drank some of the now lukewarm tea.
‘What could they do? Josie’s still going to be dead, isn’t she?’
Annika looked hard at her.
‘Patricia,’ she said, ‘please, tell me what you know. It’s important to me. Was it Joachim?’
Patricia put her mug down and stared at her lap.
‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘It could have been someone else. One of the bigwigs, maybe …’ Her voice faded, and a sudden heavy silence filled the kitchen.
‘What makes you think that?’
Her eyes filled with tears again.
‘I can’t tell you,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
She looked up at the reporter and her tears overflowed, her voice now shrill and aggressive. ‘Because he’d know I was the one who talked! Don’t you get it? I can’t! I won’t!’
Patricia jumped up and ran out of the kitchen, threw herself on her mattress and pulled the duvet over her head. A few moments later she heard the journalist’s voice from the doorway.
‘I’m sorry,’ Annika said. ‘I really didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll try to find out if anyone’s reported Studio Six for the crap they said about Josefin. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’
Patricia didn’t answer, breathing quickly and shallowly under the covers. The air was thick and sweaty, and there was hardly any oxygen under there.
The journalist let herself out and closed the front door gently behind her.
Patricia threw off the duvet. She lay there, looking out through a crack in the black curtains.
It would soon be night-time again.
33
Jansson had arrived, thank goodness! At least he had a brain, unlike Spike.
‘You look shattered,’ Jansson said.
‘Cheers,’ Annika said. ‘Have you got time for a chat?’
He clicked away from something on his screen.
‘Sure. The smoking bubble?’
They went out to the smoking area, and the night-editor lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke upwards.
‘Christer Lundgren lives fifty metres from the scene of the murder,’ she said. ‘Everyone in the building has been questioned.’
Jansson whistled.
‘That puts things in a different light. Have you found out anything else?’
She looked down at the floor.
‘The boyfriend has an alibi. One of my sources says it could have been some VIP who killed her.’
Jansson carried on smoking and looking at the young temp without saying anything. He couldn’t make her out. She was a combination of smart, impulsive and ambitious, but in a way that wasn’t altogether healthy.
‘Come on, out with it,’ he said. ‘Who are your sources?’
She pursed her lips. ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’
He shook his head.
‘The victim’s flatmate and the detective in charge of the case at violent crime. Neither of them is prepared to talk openly, but they’ve said quite a lot off the record.’
Jansson was aware his eyebrows had shot up.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘How the hell did you manage that?’
She shrugged. ‘Just called and kept pestering. I went round to the girls’ flat. Her name’s Patricia. I’m a bit worried about her.’
Jansson stubbed out his cigarette.
‘We’ve got to go harder with the minister today,’ he said. ‘He’s been questioned three times now. There must be more to that than just the fact that he lives close to the scene of the crime. But that’s very interesting; I haven’t read anything about where he lives anywhere else. We’ll do a separate piece on that. How did you find that out, just out of interest?’
She sighed. ‘I was having coffee with one of his neighbours. Then I rang on his door.’
Jansson was taken aback.
‘And he answered?’
She blushed.
‘I needed the toilet.’
The night-editor leaned back in the plastic chair.
‘What on earth did he say?’
She laughed, embarrassed. ‘He threw me out.’
Jansson laughed loudly.
‘Where’s Carl?’ Annika wondered.
‘He got another tip-off, about those Barbie dolls. They’re up to something again.’
Annika stiffened.
‘How did that actually come about yesterday?’ she asked.
‘I don’t really know,’ Jansson said. ‘He just turned up with the pictures at nine o’clock or so.’
‘Did you know he was bringing them in?’
Jansson shook his head and lit another cigarette.
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘It came as a nice surprise.’
‘Do you think it’s ethical, to go along on a terrorist attack?’ she said.
Jansson sighed and put the cigarette out after just two drags.
‘That’s a bi
g question,’ he said, standing up. ‘Can you check with Carl and see if you want to add any extra information to his piece?’
Annika got up as well.
‘Sure thing,’ she said.
Jansson’s phone was ringing madly over on his desk, and he hurried to get it.
‘Hi, Berit, how are you getting on? No? Bastard!’
Annika sat down at Berit’s desk and wrote her articles. The piece about the government minister living close to the scene of the crime was tricky to get right. She didn’t have much to put in it. For a long while she sat and stared at the screen, then she picked up the phone and dialled Christer Lundgren’s press secretary.
‘Karina Björnlund,’ the woman said as she answered.
Annika explained who she was, and said she hoped she wasn’t interrupting anything.
‘Well, I’m actually in the middle of a dinner party here. Could you call back tomorrow, do you think?’
Annika gasped. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I just told you, I’m busy.’
‘Why is the minister being questioned?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Is it because he lives right next to the scene of the murder?’
The press secretary’s surprise sounded genuine.
‘Does he?’
Annika groaned.
‘Thanks for letting me disturb you,’ she said sarcastically. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Karina Björnlund chirped. ‘Have a nice evening!’
Jesus Christ! Annika thought.
She called the exchange and asked where Berit was staying, and was given a number in Visby, on the island of Gotland. She was in when Annika called.
‘No luck with the hunt?’ Annika asked.
Berit sighed. ‘The speaker’s denying all knowledge of IB whatsoever.’
‘What are you trying to find out?’
‘He was very influential back in the sixties, one of the people who was most involved. He did his military service at the Information Bureau.’
Annika blinked.
‘Is that even possible?’
‘Well, the formal description is that he was posted to the defence ministry’s security department, but in practice he just carried on with his political activities. How are you getting on?’
Annika hesitated. ‘Oh, okay, I suppose. Studio Six have announced that she was a stripper.’
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